


The Case Of The Five Year Old Pip

by Jimlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Parent!lock, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You 'ave to find mummy and daddy.” The child demands of Sherlock in a small desperate voice..  Six years after meeting Sherlock, John's life is changed once again, this time by a small brunette seeking their help.  A case, grieving, and adoption ensue but that is only the beginning as John and Sherlock's friendship turns into something more.<br/>PARENT!LOCK adoption fic, with Arthur Doyle instead of a Hamish... Johnlock centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!
> 
> Note: The main child character is not harmed in this fic (not even by Jim, although I cannot promise no kidnapping). He's the only one I'll make promises for.
> 
> Also, I decided to pull out the one sided Jimlock feelings from Moriarty as this story is already going to be lengthy without opening up that whole can of worms. Pairing removed )=

Sherlock and John have been flatmates for several years now. They're a strangely complimentary duo, but despite everyone's innuendos to there being more than that, nothing further has ever happened. Their relationship has remained platonic for six years running. Their daily life was such a rhythmic flow, John knowing how to deal with Sherlock, and Sherlock adjusting a little further to sharing his daily life with another person. Given their lively, dangerous profession life never became dull.  
  
Least of all when yet another case sprouts up in one peculiar little package. It all begins with a knock on the door..

Mrs. Hudson knocks in a way that Sherlock finds interesting. He immediately sits up in his low-backed leather chair, watching John ambulate over to the door. Their not-housekeeper walks in with a slight furrow to her brow. Sherlock can immediately tell she feels uncertain and nervous from her bent posture and the wrinkling lines in her forehead and along her eyes.

When his stare swept down her dress for further data he sees why, catching sight of the low figure that accompanies her. A small boy of around four or five, holding a still-open umbrella tightly in his pallid hands. He is a short figure, his cranium able to come up around the height of Sherlock's knee. The child is frightened – even John can tell that in the wide eyed stare.  
  
“He says he has a case for you,” Mrs. Hudson says in a soft earnest way to get the information out, yet her eyes are looking tentatively down to the boy. If it was as simple as a foolish thought – the case of who stole my teddy bear – Mrs. Hudson would have sent him away, thus she must have been told something worth bringing an unattended child up to them, so Sherlock is intrigued.  
  
John had been up to make them tea when the knock had resounded. He was in a usual jumper, dish rag in hand, quite an inconspicuous figure within the flat. It is easy for the child to tell who is the famous sleuth and who is not.  
  
The little boy points at Sherlock with one hand, still holding to the umbrella with the other, “Are you the 'tective?”  
  
“I am a consulting detective.” Sherlock replies with as much stiff precision as an adult would have gotten. John harrumphes warningly to him.  
  
“Sherlock 'Olmes?” The child seeks verification, though his finger lowers and winds itself and its brethren back around the umbrella handle. He is afraid, but unwilling to speak with anyone else. Just stubborn enough to hold his own against the adults without crying.

Sherlock nods once to confirm it. He remains in his usual position, not warming his posture just because of the speaker's age.  
  
“You 'ave to fin' mummy an' daddy.” The child demands of Sherlock in a small desperate voice.  
  
John's heart tugs at the obvious fear and his first instinct is to point to the couch, “If we're on the case, then you're our client. Would you like to sit down?” He offers kindly.  
  
“John you can't be..” Sherlock begins to reply when John throws him a murderous stare that brings the sentence to an untimely end. With a stiffness in his lower back Sherlock walks to his chair and sits down, looking across the room at the child. “Give me the details.”

The detective's blogger takes his phone and texts Lestrade with the summary of their suddenly odd morning. John looks up as Sherlock prepares to dive head first into the case, “How about -” It still impresses him at times, Sherlock's failure at social connections, “His name, Sherlock?”  
  
“M' name's Arthur..” Says the only tenor voice in the room, looking up with wide, attentive green eyes. "Arthur Doyle." He takes off a Transformers backpack and sets it beside him on the couch, sitting with his legs out and hands respectfully in his lap.

“How old are you, Arthur?” Inquires John, the voice he uses to deal with children remarkably similar to the one he uses on an irrational Sherlock, a ranting Sherlock, and many, many versions of his flatemate.

“Five – an' a 'alf, or almost 'alf.” He replies, looking over at Sherlock. Though he looks when John speaks to him his small eyes always seem to turn back to the detective.

Mrs. Hudson lingers in the room, staying out of motherly inklings. She remains out of the way but the worry is there on her face while the men retain their calm – Sherlock is indifferent, and John has warmed up to the mysterious yet polite guest.

“Why did you come to us instead of calling the police?” Sherlock asks – it is not unusual for an adult to seek him out, but for a child to traipse in instead of calling 911 or going to a neighbor is odd.  
  
“My brother tol' me 'bout you. 'is name is Ian. 'e's fourteen an'..” The child launches into a lengthy narrative that displays his clear adoration for his sibling. It has far too much extraneous detail, but nobody has the heart to stop him. One thing that is worth noting is Ian's interest in Holmes' website and his sleuthing. Finally though, Arthur's jabber comes back around to the task at hand, “An' Ian said, if somethin' weird 'appened an' 'e wasn't there t' go to Sherlock 'Olmes the 'tective.”

Arthur unzips his backpack and stretches it open the rest of the way. He slides a box out of it and slips off the couch, walking over to Sherlock. “Eve'ybody left an' never came back. So I brought you a clue.”

Sherlock takes the box and looks it over, finding some scratches from youthful play, a few pen knife marks, but nothing telltale. When he opens it the 'clue' is obvious – atop a few childhood treasures is an official looking document. One flip through the pages shows Sherlock plans of an immense device – some type of bomb he thinks at first glance.

“Where did you get this?” Sherlock inquires to the child that stands in front of him.

“It was in Ian's sec'et hiding spot but I know where tha' is.” A touch of pride at that admission, the one all little brothers show when they get a smug sense of oneupmanship on their older kin. “'e puts everythin' impor'ant righ' 'ere.”  
  
“How did you get here?” John steps in while Sherlock appears to be looking him, and the box, over. The man is gleaning a million clues and John cannot fathom one. He moves on quickly to the small child in front of them, clearly in trouble.  
  
“Rode m' new bike.” Arthur smiled for the first time. John suddenly hopes that for once they will get to a happy ending. This kid is just a bit out of touch with how dangerous this may be.

“How exciting.” Sherlock murmurs under his breath.

“Sherlock.” John snaps at him. Some things have not changed over time. Least of all Sherlock's prickly personableness. Still, John knows Sherlock, and anything Holmes would classify as 'exciting' would surely be taken up by the stimuli-hungry detective – so John resigns himself to the fact that they are now on Arthur Doyle's case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously based on The Case Of The Five Orange Pips.. Please leave comments or kudos (=


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade arrives, looking haggard and busy. His eyes swing to and fro quickly, settling on John as he knows better then to rely on Sherlock. The doctor does not like the thin set lips Greg has when he pulls him aside. “I've only got a minute to stop – I'm in the middle of a time sensitive investigation. Can't say anymore.” He angles his body away from the others, and John mimics him. The officer's voice has dropped to a quieter volume to keep it between the two of them. “The nearest care home is full. We can't drive a few hours out of the way - everyone on the force is occupied.”

John frowns slightly at the news, feeling ill at ease when all of Lestrade's forces have their hands full. The Detective Inspector more then alludes to the need to press on with his current mystery case, and he looks exhausted. Over Lestrade's shoulder the brown haired ex-army officer notices that Arthur is watching them curiously.

Mrs. Hudson, who has been loitering like a wallflower at a school dance, steps forward into the whispered conversation. “I'm sure he could stay here.” The two men stare silently, waiting, and she flusters a touch. “Well, couldn't he? For a little while.”  
  
“I should have been at a crime scene ten minutes ago – You and Sherlock already have the Yard's backing. Are you okay with this John?” Asks Lestrade, but John knows what he is really saying – will you be alright babysitting not one, but two children? Sherlock is a handful on par with a small child, and Lestrade does not expect him to be any help. Neither does John, but as long as the detective focuses on the case then John supposes that is the best he can do for Arthur.

John nods willingly and Lestrade says something about getting in contact with someone to pick him up while he moves to head out, to make sure the trail does not grow cold. Arthur's eyes follow him out the door, frowning and chewing on his lower lip. John can see that the silver haired man makes him nervous, and that visual exchange does not escape Sherlock.

Sherlock is already mentally abuzz with thoughts and he has a place in mind to investigate. “Do you know your address?” He inquires, sensible sounding, and suddenly alert.

Arthur parrots out what is a well trained response giving his home address. He had been treated with its memorization, his phone number (went unanswered), along with the don't talk to strangers spiel. Fairly standard parenting in the twenty-first century.

Sherlock stands and goes to grab a lock picking kit from his room. John turns to Mrs. Hudson and with a small forced smile asks her to watch Arthur while they go examine his house – bringing him is out of the question when there may be a hint of foul play or danger. The boy squirms when it becomes clear that they are going to leave and John gives him a more genuine smile than the one his landlady received, “Be back soon.”

* * *

  
In fifteen minutes a cab takes them to the address Arthur gave them. Neither man is surprised when ringing the doorbell produces no result. Sherlock prowls around out front before taking to their mailbox – not picked up, another sign of absence. He rifles through and finds the perfunctory mail of any middle class family – bills, a catalog for a toy store..  
  
They break in easily. John's been around Sherlock for too long to find it in himself to admonish the detective's illegal ways, and just follows him inside, gun out. Like a protective bodyguard to some regal figure he lurks in Sherlock's shadow as they walk through what appears to be an empty house.

The floral wallpaper in the hall is faded but attractive. The house is a welcoming jam-cram pile of various knickknacks. No sign of a scuffle immediately. Sherlock's eyes sweep over the living room and he stands there a moment before moving away. Nothing is touched – the furniture is a mishmash of pieces instead of a set, forming a U-shape around a flatscreen television, and of course loads of toys littering the floor.

John pauses in the kitchen, calling out, “Sherlock!” The man turns into the doorway within a second, not having gone far. He spies the scene John called him in for – the kitchen is the sight of a mess. Broken glass, food splattering. Even John can tell someone dropped a casserole dish. Though he does not notice that someone else had to have been present, not until Sherlock points out the dishrag on the floor near the sink - “Someone else was doing dishes. They entered through the back door..”

Sherlock takes a step further, turning and lifting his hands in parallel with the pathway the intruders must have taken. “A scuff mark here, the owners of the house resisted only briefly..” His voice grows quiet on the final word, eyes rocketing for another clue to make the next piece of the puzzle. It is a simple one – an empty chair, pushed away from the table. “The older brother was here when they came.” The scene plays out in front of Sherlock – parents making dinner, the explosive entrance, the attempt to fight but a gun on a child in front of his parents would quickly lead to submission.

Without waiting any longer Sherlock takes the stairs for a swift examination, seeking out the parents' bedroom. He begins a search high up – anything outside the reach of a child's grasp. On top of the wardrobe he is rewarded, although that makes him frown. Such an obvious place does not bode well for the security precautions of those he investigates.  
  
Confidential! Is written across the file in large print, and after flipping through the first few pages it is confirmed to be related to the schematic designs Arthur brought them from his brother's secret hiding place. Sherlock gathers it together and continues searching.

While Sherlock is entering the master bedroom John gets distracted in the hallway. Arthur's bedroom door is advertising itself with a kaleidescope of pictures, a montage of characters from shows, movies and stories, kid's arts and crafts, and an explosion of stickers at the bottom few feet. John enters and looks around with a souring expression. The brightly colored room is obviously a painstaking effort – a mural rests on the wall, a well crafted scene of cartoon characters and from the ceiling hangs a brightly colored series of homemade rocket ships. The sheer force of the happiness in this room yielded by button eyes and near-florescent colors depresses John when coupled with that rainy little figure back at the flat. If this is what he has lost, well, John's heart is already going out to him.

After a moment John heads down to the kitchen and finds a bag, simultaneously using that time to steel himself into a more stolid state of mind. Then he takes to what must be Arthur's room once again. John grabs a few of the small outfits from the bureau. On reflection he picks up a couple stuffed animals, the ones resting on top of the bed.

Sherlock steps into the doorway, eying John, “That isn't evidence.”

“It's to make him more comfortable while he's at our flat, Sherlock.” John replies easily. He looks up and catches sight of a difficult to pinpoint look on his flatmate's face. Just the slightest awkward bend of his brows and an aloofness in his stare that is unusual when Sherlock is in case-solving mode.

After finishing in Arthur's room they look quickly to the rest of the home before moving on. Sherlock takes the files with him to study that evening. John brings back the bag of clothes and toys, watching Sherlock peruse the file in the cab on the ride home. A burnt piece of paper is an immediately noticeable contradiction to the stark white documents loaded with design imagery, as is the harsh message embossed onto it. As both men stare down at what they find within the files they feel with heavy hearts that they are reading a threat, even though it is obscure to them:

_**Put the papers on the sundial.**_


	3. Chapter 3

When the two investigators arrive back home Sherlock breezes upstairs. His eyes are moving across the pages within the file while he takes to the stairs. Already the detective is ignoring the world in favor of the tantalizing prospect of uncovering another puzzle.

John is the one who stops to meet Mrs. Hudson, and the two chat for a moment before Arthur approaches. The tiny brunette stares up at them as discretely as any five year old can, which is not very much at all.

John quickly invites Arthur to come on up to the flat with him, showing the lad his bag of recovered toys first. Though, when Arthur askes if they could get the rest, John is left at an impasse – what would happen if the case took a long time? Or if the worst might happen? Instead, Mrs. Hudson saves the day by offering to come up with them and put clean sheets on the bed in the spare room.

When they enter the first thing Sherlock does is level Arthur with a question, “Was it anyone's birthday recently?”

Mrs. Hudson and John both tilt their heads and stare at the detective. Arthur merely shakes his head no. With his question answered Sherlock mentally departs and resumes his perusal of the files. After a split second the adults move on, used to the detective's peculiar mannerisms, but Arthur is intrigued enough to walk over and stand juxtapose to his chair, reading over the black haired man's shoulder.

“Do you understand the bombardment of elements to cause nuclear fission?” Sherlock crisply asks the young boy.  
  
“No.” Arthur replies innocently.  
  
“Then please go away.” Sherlock murmurs with his characteristic lack of finesse.

“Sherlock, he's a kid.” John snipes at his flatmate.

All he gets in return is a wave of the man's slender hand, long fingers twitching slightly. Sherlock throws himself into his studious consideration, oblivious to the world.  
  
John turns his attention to the small face staring up at him precariously and forces a smile. “Do you like biscuits?”

* * *

 

John and Arthur sit across from each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of chocolate chip cookies between them. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson goes shopping regularly, and had earlier offered a few items that a child would have an affinity for.

To John's delight the little guest is amusing to talk to and willing to open up to John. Though, he is not certain why he is seen capable of this trust that is a step above what Arthur has shown Mrs. Hudson. Still, Arthur's descriptions of various friends in school, shows, and family stories amused John who has had very little interaction with children, not since he himself had been one.  
  
“So what's your favorite Disney movie?” John inquires, keeping it safe and light. He purposefully avoids bringing up the lad's family considering their uncertainty.  
  
“Well I 'aven't seen it, bu' I think Cars Two's m'favorite.” Arthur replies through crumb covered lips.

John lets out one soft bark of laughter, “Then how do you know it's your favorite?”  
  
“Commercials look funny.” He picks up another cookie and lifts it up. “What's yers?”

“I haven't seen any in a long time..” John replies thoughtfully. Having not known the one Arthur mentions has reminded him of his age and, not for the first time, John wondered about children. It was only there for a split second, but the thought had existed with brief intensity like a firefly's shine.

John picks up his laptop and flips it open, turning to the Radio Times webpage and seeking out Disney movies on telly. He finds Alice In Wonderland playing that evening and informs Arthur, to the boy's delight. With a small grin John agrees to watch it, and lets Arthur tell him the entire plot even though he has seen it years ago when he was a kid.

* * *

 

“This is ridiculous.” Sherlock snaps roughly at the two brown haired figures sitting side by side on the sofa, thick as thieves.  
  
John surveys him through his chestnut gaze with a bored yet stubborn stare. Arthur's forest colored eyes look curious but not put off. Both appear to be waiting and between them is a bowl of popcorn.

Sherlock points to the screen and raises an eyebrow, “Not only a distraction but the most improbably pointless contrivance of a plot I have yet to observe.”

“Sherlock, it's Disney. This is Alice In Wonderland.” John waves a hand at him, hoping the man will take the hint to carry on his case work in one of the many rooms without a telly in it. It is not their fault they have but one option, short of bothering Mrs. Hudson which John would not want to do unless absolutely forced to, and Sherlock having a small tantrum is nowhere near worthy of that.  
  
“Alice on a drug trip..” Sherlock mutters as he pads out of the room in his periwinkle dressing gown, arms laden not only with the file but a few reference books.

* * *

 

That night Sherlock is pacing around the living room when a small noise catches his attention. Though usually impervious to extraneous stimuli while his mind was focused Sherlock does notice this. The sound stands out among the quiet of the late hour.  
  
Finding himself face to face with Arthur the two stare at each other with equal curiosity. Sherlock is not quite certain what to say to the little boy, who has just rolled out of bed if Sherlock is properly judging his rumpled blue Disney Cars pajamas and the wrinkles around the corners of his glassy eyes.

Fortunately, Arthur saves him the bother, “Can' sleep either?”

“Normally I find sleep elusive on a case.” Remarks the elegantly spoken man down to the diminutive boy.  
  
“Wha's tha' mean?” Arthur inquires.  
  
Sherlock sighs in irritation, having to regurgitate such a simple phrase, “When I work, I do not sleep much.” Arthur makes a small noise of understanding before the two lapse into a silence.

Sherlock thinks about what he knows of children, and settles on telling Arthur, “There are Crunchies in the kitchen.”

* * *

  
John stumbles down the stairs in the middle of the night. Sometimes his PTSD acts up and leaves him with harrowing nightmares, and this is yet another night of tossing and turning. Figuring that a glass of water might help, he also has the passing thought that he could take the opportunity to check on Arthur, too. A protective paternal feeling hits him before hopeful thoughts of Arthur's parents being alright does.

A slight sound that would have been blotted out in the background white noise of daytime caught John's attention and put the soldier on alert as he took to the stairs. What he finds in the kitchen is not Moriarty though, or any other attacker, but Sherlock and Arthur at the kitchen table.

The little lad is sitting in the chair on his knees in order to lean over the table curiously. A chocolate bar in hand, with crumbled bits from the yellow honeycomb inside falling onto the table. The slightest smear upon his upper lip.

Meanwhile, Sherlock has something in a beaker and he is incessantly explaining without pause for breath some science-fact in that formidable silken voice, now lowered to a quiet whisper. John furrows his brow and catches some of the conversation – realizing that Sherlock is trying to explain what a molecule is, and the fact that Arthur thinks he is made up of tiny things astounds him though he cannot fully grasp it.

“Sherlock?” John mumbles as he looks between the two. Arthur is immediately stiff, knowing he ought not be out of bed now – it was impressive enough that Sherlock failed to notice that, but he could tell John would not let it pass. “It's two in the morning or something..”  
  
“Neither of us could sleep.” Sherlock replies, voice all but washing his hands of the matter. It simply was convenient, and he saw no harm.

“Both of you need to try,” John raises his brow slightly but this late that is all the admonishing he will yield. The doctor shakes his head and extends a hand to Arthur.

The child pouts but slowly climbs to the ground and walks over to him, looking up into the man's brown eyes. “You're mol'acles.”

“And you're going to bed...” John replies, squeezing his hand gently into his own, and turning to tuck him back in. He pauses in the doorway, “You too, Sherlock.” Instead of sounding chastising the tone is rather caring.  
  
Sherlock cannot help put putter around the kitchen for a little longer to stubbornly rationalize that he is not listening to John, but after a few minutes he does make for the hall to at least try and lie down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed John said biscuits, and I wrote chocolate cookies. I do try and keep it fairly Brit-sensitive overall, but I'm American and I think COOKIES!  
> The characters will always talk as they ought, and if the narrative is in their voice I try and stick with it there too, but I like my narrative writing to reflect what I'm thinking so there will be such little clash-culture moments on purpose.  
> PS: But I eat Crunchies all the time! I get them shipped over here annually.. LOVE 'EM!


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning Sherlock is up and gone before breakfast. John awoke to find him long gone, with no note, but he knew not to expect better from the consulting detective. Sometimes Sherlock got carried away, and he did at least answer his phone when John sent a text;

**I had an idea. I'm on the case.**

Knowing that the detective is in no immediate danger settles John immensely. He can turn his attention to Arthur with greater ease. So John makes pancakes. Rather, John tries to make pancakes and fails. They end up burnt and triggering a nasty stank through the apartment.  
  
The abhorrent odor is on the youth's mind as he walks into the kitchen, “Wha's tha' smell?”  
  
“Morning Arthur.” John says with patience, yet it is stretched slightly in his voice. Those pancakes have bruised his ego, even if only marginally. That emotion is redirected into a more cheerful one as he spies Arthur sitting down at the kitchen table. John smiles minutely, “You're a well behaved guest. Did you sleep alright?”  
  
“Yup. I wa'e up late 'n' everythin'.” Arthur waits patiently at the table, only prodding whatever experiment Sherlock has left in a jar a few times. He watches John move around the stove, waiting until the man comes over with a plate to ask curiously. “D'ya 'afta ta'e me t'school?”  
  
Considering that John is not sure what he ought do he decides to do nothing – a day or two missing class when one's parents are kidnapped seems a shadow in comparison to what he may face down the road. The news brought in with a shake of his head no does make Arthur grin. He stabs the only pancake not burnt by John, a bit well done, but still brown instead of black, and chews on one end. John realizes and takes the fork, cutting it up into bite sizes pieces.

Suddenly Sherlock sweeps into the apartment, moving quickly through the living room. “John-” He begins, stopping when he sees Arthur sitting there. Lips draw back tightly, and it is then John notices how pale Sherlock looks.  
  
“Be back in a second, adult-type talking.” John told Arthur while giving his best 'wait here' look to the child. He has not gotten a chance to practice it on anyone other than Sherlock.

John can feel Sherlock's unease as they traverse the hall, slipping into Sherlock's bedroom where they can be afforded some privacy. The doctor's eyes fall upon the rumpled bedsheets before turning to the detective himself.

Sherlock looks to John's face while he steels himself, for it is not as dark as it might be. He is glad the door is tightly closed behind them though. “They work for a research and development firm investigating everything from aerospace flight to biological warfare.” The people behind the "they" in that sentence are Arthur's parents, it goes without being said between them. “Their area of expertise is more the latter, but it seems that these engineers were secretly working on a nuclear project.” John swallows, adam's apple jiggling as he waits, knowing what will come next. “The secret got out.”

John groans and shakes his head slightly – nuclear.. they were dealing with nuclear weapons? He looks to his mind shatteringly perceptive friend in hopes that the detective is wrong. “The files?”

“The files were only the start, John. That told me what they were building, but not what happened to them. They were approached by a terrorist organization, and smuggled the designs out from the facility. They sold the bomb's schematics. The transaction was incomplete.” His final line is ominous, and John feels the darkness settling over them suddenly, as if he and Sherlock were on a train entering a tunnel.

“We know they were abducted in their home..” John begins, trying to mount the evidence logically. He hopes for something less fanciful than their normally fantastic theories – something with a safe ending.

“John, their house tell us much more. It is telltale of their income bracket, but their new acquisitions are not.”  
  
John thought about the house itself – the wallpapering was overdue for replacing, in Arthur's room they had painted a mural themselves, the furniture was a mismatched grouping, much of the baseboards were faded with time. The house itself is not in the best nor worst of neighborhoods. A steady lower middle class dwelling for certain.  
  
“New acquisitions?” John asks with a sense that Sherlock is about to make him feel foolish with an obvious answer. He knows the detective well, for that is exactly what happens.  
  
“The cardboard boxes discarded in the trash represent a spending spree. Brand new items all over that house, John – a slew of them.” John thought about it and realized that Sherlock was right – the television in their living room, books, Arthur's bike...

“So they sold the plans – and then what?” John asks after his comprehension fills out a little further.  
  
“If you were sold incomplete plans, what would you do?” Sherlock asks of John with a hint of gentle guiding. The man knows that arriving at the answer will upset John.  
  
“Go after the source, and get it completed.” John mutters.  
  
“Precisely. One child taken for insurance,” Sherlock answers disinterestedly, holding emotion aloft at arm's length. The other child forgotten at a neighbor's where he was safe until coming home for tea and finding no one home, waiting and waiting, until deciding to track down Sherlock Holmes the detective.  
  
“I have been into the CCTV footage and three people fitting the description of the Doyles were seen exiting a warehouse in a dubious manner.” Sherlock does not tell him he managed this by using Mycroft's clearance overrides. For once he does not gloat about getting one up on his elder sibling. “They boarded a private jet called Lone Star, which took off at 7:03 AM today and contact was lost. It is believed to have gone down, but it may easily be a ruse.”

Feeling weighted down by leaden overalls John steps back and sinks down onto Sherlock's mattress. He puts his forehead in his palm to try and gain a sense of grounding, but it does not help. His mind swims with dark thoughts for that couple, for their son, and for the son they left behind. Body teaming with sorrow for them, regret for Arthur, and anger that they would risk themselves. He swallows down the thick lump in his throat and looks up to the pale detective whose face is more drawn than usual.  
  
Sherlock does not tell John that the warehouse he saw was heavily guarded, nor does he point out the million dangerous details revealed by those pixelated images he spent the early morning hours pouring over. Each perusal only yielded a new darkness – Sherlock had painted a clear picture of the reality at hand, there is no need to rub in salt.  
  
Neither of them notice Mrs. Hudson's calls until she is outside in the hall. Sherlock opens the door and nearly glares out at her. “Detective Inspector to see you..” She flushes a tiny touch when she spots John over his shoulder.  
  
Somehow, in spite of how poorly he already feels, that news makes John's stomach sink like a stone dropped from ten flights up.


	5. Chapter 5

John speed walks through the hall as his heart seems to slow, which he finds odd. Are hearts not supposed to race in such moments? The doctor has little time to wonder about his pulse as the sight of the silver haired Detective Inspector greets him. At least he knows what a heart attack should feel like, and this isn't it.

Lestrade looks much better then last time; No longer in a rush, with only slight dark circles beneath his eyes. His white button up is freshly pressed this time.  
  
“How was Norfolk?” Sherlock asks abruptly.

Lestrade levels him with a look. Showing off is the detective's bread and butter, and he already knows from prior case experience that Sherlock can determine locations from mud splatters (the bottoms of his slacks have many). Still, it is confidential in relation to an ongoing case, so all Sherlock gets is that heavy disapproving look.  
  
“Sorry about the delay,” Lestrade gestures as if all of London were behind him. “I know it can'ta been easy,” A grin rests on his face and he looks to John, intending to pass a joking look between them at the image of watching Sherlock AND Arthur.  
  
John is not in a mood for joking and does not join him, which is the first hint to Lestrade that something is off. Still, the silver haired man remains jovial, especially as Arthur walks out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was about. Lestrade smiles with a mix of politeness and pity, “Hello.”  
  
“.. Awrigh'..” Arthur mumbles out, no longer secure with the presence of the strange police officer. He heads over to Sherlock and John, forming a trio against Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

“I've come to take you to a nice place that'll look after you.” Offers Lestrade as genially as possible to the little boy.  
  
Arthur shakes his head no and moves closer to John's leg. Suddenly his face has fallen, as if someone handed him a balloon merely to pop it in his face spitefully.

Sherlock looks from Lestrade to Arthur, not much affected by the news – after all, it was something they were expecting. Why should it come as a surprise? “We're still on your case.” He remarks candidly. Still, those round, glazed verdant eyes bore into him like a slow drill.

John kneels down, successfully stifling a minor groan as he lengths his right leg, his bad one. One knee bends fully, while the other only makes it partway. He begins to pat Arthur on the shoulder, and his stomach turns over as tears prick the little boy's eyes.

“Greg is a great guy and an honest police officer. He won't be telling you anything that isn't for the best.” The words feel mechanical in his mouth, but they come out alright. The entire situation feels wrong to John even though he knows this is how it has to be. Arthur is no blood relation to them. Legally there is no reason why they should look after him.

Emotionally he only sinks further, as the tears start falling and Arthur throws himself at John in a hug. Tiny arms grappling to find anything to clasp onto. “Wan-na staaay... with.. you..” He chokes out as sobs wreck his tiny form.

“This is just until we can find your parents.. There are plenty of other kids there, you won't be the only one..” Lestrade begins, trying to gently rationalize as much as he could. He tries to present it in a more positive light, and even Mrs. Hudson murmurs in agreement with him to make the child feel better about having to leave. Arthur's body jerks with each hitch of his sobs that show no signs of abating, yet his movements are few and come drawn out.

Sherlock has been watching the scene with methodical consideration. He can read John trying to hold back his own emotion, and the unhappy drag of the militant doctor's eyes downward. John displays the same frown he had when hearing about his sister Harry's binge slip-up a year ago; Sherlock knows John is upset. Sentiment is the cause of course..

Yet as his eyes, with flecks of green visible in their heterochromatic hues, rest on Arthur he cannot quite chide John, even if it is expected and inevitable. There is something personal about this case, perhaps because of the helplessness of the client, but either way all that really matters is knowing John's become attached. _A peculiar emotional accident.._

The soft wailing of Arthur and the comforting lulled tones of the various adults suddenly ceases with Sherlock's silken voice, cutting through the room with its impervious air. “Why can't he stay?” Sherlock inquires with that childish air of innocence about the legalese-filled world.

“With you?” Lestrade's brows rise as he looks to the detective. A lopsided frown comes to his lips while he shoves his hands into his pockets, a long sigh leaving him. At Sherlock's interminable stare the officer answers, “You're not exactly foster material, Holmes.”

John's inside quiver and heat, like someone has slit him from throat to sternum. He swallows harshly, unable to believe Sherlock's question. It is not as if the onyx haired man has any fondness, but as he looks up all he sees is determination in that firm gaze.

“I am.” John finds himself saying before he can stop to think about his words. At the surprised stare from Mrs. Hudson he shrugs slightly, “My record is clean. And I'm a doctor, even if I spend half my time running around London with him.”

“You're not certified for it, John.” Points out Lestrade who understands the system and requirements within. Children cannot just be taken to anyone for looking after, and though he knows John is a responsible man (he did leave Arthur there in the short term) legally this is not a feasible arrangement.

Sherlock's eyes narrow at the sudden drop of John's eyes. A minuscule movement that only he notes because it is quickly huffed up within. Neither does he miss the slight tightening of Arthur on John.

“I,” Begins the detective in a crisp voice of fluid silk, “Am not paper-qualified yet I have dealt with how many of your confidential cases?” His cool, calculating gaze penetrates from across the room.

John can feel the static in the air from the approaching storm of Sherlock's verbal assault. He looks up from the still sniffling child and catches sight of Lestrade pursing his lips.

“Those are two different things.” Lestrade says plainly.

“Hardly. Both take training – which neither of us has a need for.” Emotions mingling within Sherlock as John still kneels on the floor awkwardly. Sherlock reaches down and takes hold of his arm, helping John up. Arthur quickly buries his face in John's stiffened leg, trying to hide behind him.

“If you asked me to join your police force to act on cases legitimately,” Sherlock begins, ignoring the scoff from Lestrade and proceeding with an impassive tone with an underlying hint of curtness from the up-kick in the speed of his words, “I would decline. Then where would you be, Detective Inspector?” A soft silence aside from a hiccup from Arthur, and Sherlock needs not continue any farther. The point is made.

* * *

 

Greg Lestrade is still frowning as he leaves. He pauses to glance back at the door to 221b. After weak arguing that soon petered out he had thrown up his hands, unable to find it in himself to wrench the child off John's leg and dismiss Sherlock's future assistance. Begrudgingly he had said, “I'll say it slipped my mind, and you never phoned, alright? I'm not going any farther.” But, for the trio, that was far enough.

Lestrade had joined the force for the sake of justice, of protection, but not to do something like some sort of monster. Still, leaving 221b and allowing Arthur to stay does not sit well with him, as a police officer - this is likely to come back and haunt his career. Though, as a moral man, he feels contented.


	6. Chapter 6

John could understand Greg's position and sympathizes with most of his grumbling about duty. Still, when the man finally leaves after Sherlock's cool sniping he feels minor relief. Other than that slight feeling there is a great deal of empty numbness. He knows he did the right thing, but this is a serious matter – this is a child's life.

Even before Lestrade left the consulting detective has hopped on his mobile phone. He ignores everyone else, walking off. Sherlock has already extrapolated that this is a quick fix. Even he knows a child cannot just stay with strangers exponentially.

The various classes, lectures, and courses required to become a foster parent that John will need for certification look straight forward enough as his violinist's fingers scroll through them. Some are useless to their situation – abuse, rape, etc – but he suppose that red tape must covered everything; His brother quickly comes to mind as the phrase 'red tape' flares up in his mind.  
  
Mrs. Hudson creeps timidly across to John, bending over to pat Arthur gingerly on top of his head. Arthur has stopped crying, but his eyes remain in a pitiful swollen red state. After a moment she gently remarks, “There's some chocolate biscuits downstairs, why don't you fetch one?”

Arthur nods slightly and grabs John's leg before leaving. The man's lips meld together as if in an arm wrestle.

“John.. Are you sure what you've got yourself into, dear?” Mrs. Hudson says, adjusting her frumpy green floral print top in a fidget. He only looks at her, uncertain, and after a pause she continues. “I respected the responsibility of parenting too much to muck it up myself. With my husband as he was, I'm glad for that.. What I mean is please think carefully, for his sake.” She pats his arm affectionately and after a moment leaves John with his head swimming with thoughts.

However, that is not all John has to contend with. Sherlock has finished his browsing and is already booking a plane ticket with a few flicks of his nimble digits when John finally feels able to resume the use of his legs. The militant doctor walks into the kitchen without caution.

“Sherlock,” John tries to look harder eyed than he really feels. He swallows and pushes strength into his voice but it still comes out soft,“You almost flat out refused to help with his cases.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock replies boredly at that display of obviousness, without looking up.

That indifference fuels him to raise his voice, “Sherlock, you basically blackmailed Lestrade! That's a line you shouldn't cross.”  
  
The narrow eyed stare from Sherlock pins him in place. His innards had been quieting down from the earlier flip-flopping, but this sent them wobbling askew again. There is a sharpness in those now bright blues gleaming a bronze-green, a sharpness usually reserved for people who irritate Sherlock – very rarely is it used on John.

Even though John knows that logically he is in the right, the stare unsettles something within him, as if he has just done something wrong. He just cannot understand why Sherlock has suddenly come to Arthur's defense, nor does he fathom why he is in Sherlock's cross hairs now.

Sherlock rises, straight backed and elegant as ever. An aloof stare fixes on John, “I need to investigate the Doyles' disappearance.”

Sherlock walks out of the kitchen and heads for his bedroom to change into some traveling clothes. He has a busy day ahead of him and a head full of dark thoughts about what he is most likely to find.

* * *

 

The detective's departure has left John standing there bewildered. He wishes to have gone with Sherlock, to put himself to use, but Sherlock had said “I need,” not we. The distinction might have been missed by others, but John is too used to Sherlock's verbal caprices.

For a few minutes John tries to absorb the sudden action he found himself called into. Much like an emotional war zone, with the same ability to wear him out. Still, as he finds his eyes trailing over one mess or another he realizes that if Arthur is staying for an extended period they need a flat fit for a child to live in. Not a counter top of laboratory equipment or something oozing experimental goo.

He sets about picking one or two things up first, just the obvious things that have fallen over. That leads into things in the wrong place, and before he knows it John is into a full on clean of the kitchen.  
  
“What if he _drank_ this?” John groans as he picks up a liquid measuring cup full of brightly colored acid, which John thinks looks exactly like kool-aid. It is a long time cleaning, and a good thing Mrs. Hudson does not mind cartoons jamming up her telly.

* * *

 

After two hours of cleaning Mrs. Hudson and Arthur came back upstairs in search of him. Arthur took off to play with his toys in the guest room set up for him, while his not-landlady began to help John with a task she knew well. Working together they soon had it in functioning, child-safe order, with no beakers of acid lying out and all bloody body parts stowed away.  
  
Mrs. Hudson invites them to supper and John accepted, having not even begun to think that far. She cooks simply, though it is much better than the bachelor can do himself, and they enjoy it. Arthur's smile seems to ease the conversation whenever the moment turns quiet.

* * *

 

It is an hour after their evening meal with Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock Holmes returns to the flat. He walks quickly in a graceful but stiff air, not looking in any particular direction yet he has lost that eager swivel he gets when his mind is burning on a case.

“Go to your room.” Sherlock says icily as soon as he walks through the door. John looks at him in a state of puzzlement, and Arthur seizes up at the murmured order, but hurriedly moves to follow it.

Sherlock's beady eyes rest upon his half irritated, half worried flatmate. There is no point softening this, it will not change the facts. Yet Sherlock still feels he is about to disappoint John when he would rather not. However, no one knows better than Sherlock that facts are inexpungible.

So in a clear, concise voice he states the situation precisely as it is. “They're dead, John.”


	7. Chapter 7

“What was that?” John's lower lip sticks out just slightly more than usual, some infinitesimal thing only Sherlock would notice. The man knows what he has heard, but his heart has lost its nobility with those words.

“You heard me properly.” Sherlock's reply is stiff from disuse of affinity. Still, he reaches out and sets his hand on John's good shoulder. The man looks bowled over by the news, even though both knew deep down it was a firm possibility. There is no reply for the gaping mouthed doctor.

“The plane did go down, John.” Sherlock sounds a tad gentle, yet he tries not to hide any of the reality. “It was witnessed. There are no survivors.”

“Witnesses are unreliable, you've said so yourself..” John reaches for something and easily latches onto disbelief.

“Not when they hold cameras, John.. I'm certain.” Those words from Sherlock send John's eyes to close as if in physical pain. Sherlock is certain of it, he would not say so otherwise...

John exhales harshly, starting to pace a little between the couch and kitchen doorway. “May God help that boy.” He finally whispers, after smashing his fist into the wooden paneling. The sliding door rattles with his force.

Sherlock says nothing, waiting for John to uncoil his emotions that seem to weigh against his spirit.

“Have they found any family?” John murmurs with a distance in his voice. What he feels and thinks are at a great disconnect. John has no idea how he can fathom anything beyond unabated pity.  
  
“One relative, they'll be in contact shortly I would think.” Sherlock's response is swift and almost curt.  
  
John half groans, cutting it short to shake his head in disbelief, “How are we going to tell him?”

“Do we?” Sherlock inquires with uncertainty.  
  
“If they take too long to get here..” An image of a social worker arriving at the door enters his mind. “We might not know him well Sherlock but we'll do a better job than a total stranger.” John sourly replies, seeing nothing left to do but mitigate the damage.. but how does a near-stranger fix such total destruction?

John sits on the couch and rests his elbows on his knees, staring down. He cannot fathom why he also feels a guilty loathing for Arthur's parents. The destructive nature of the terrorist group Arthur's parents had tangled themselves up in... how could they? A memory of Arthur smiling and laughing with him comes back to his mind – and all John can wonder is whether his parents were already dead then, whether it was all over. _How could they leave him alone?_

Tears begin to mist John's deep brown gaze, and Sherlock notices even though the doctor turns his face downward to hide it. That gentle tremble in his shoulders makes John look as helpless as he feels.  
  
For a moment Sherlock stands there still, watching. He does not feel as deeply as John, and to see that emotional outpour is effecting him unusually. After a moment of silence he walks over and sits on the couch beside John, hands on his knees. Before Sherlock can decide how he wants to approach the matter John leans over and rests against his shoulder. After that neither man moves for a good fifteen minutes.

* * *

 

Sherlock and John both avoid going to see Arthur while they gather themselves. Sherlock calls Lestrade and is told the last surviving Doyle, Arthur's grandmother, is already on her way to the flat. Neither wants to say anything to Arthur before her arrival.

Meanwhile, John hops on his phone once he is capable of having a conversation. Bumps and bruises, that's what Doctor Watson could handle, but not crushed hearts. So now he seeks out a fellow medical professional, but one who sought a softer science than John.

“You sound awful, John..” Remarks the voice on the other end of the line that John Watson is holding to his ear.

“This isn't my area,” John sighs softly, “But it is yours.. I hoped you could give me some – some advice.”

After a brief summary of what he has gotten himself into, John's colleague responds. “Well early loss of a parent is a huge stressor, and psychologically speaking that is going to be with him for the rest of his life.. especially since he lost both, poor kid.” Sympathizes the doctoral chum. “Children don't experience death as we do. Just getting him to understand...” The conversation is long and only saddens John further, but at least when the doorbell rings he feels prepared.

* * *

 

“Grammy!” Arthur cheers and throws his arms around her lower legs, giving her a tight hug. He moves to squirm back down to the floor to play with his matchbox cars, but she brings him into her lap.

“We've got to talk, Artie.” She murmurs soothingly. The elder woman has her white hair tightly wrapped in a bun. She had seemed like a no-nonsense sort of woman when John received her at the door, but now that melts away in Arthur's presence.

Sherlock and John had offered to excuse themselves, but she had asked them to stay. They sit awkwardly in the living room, on chairs while their guests take the couch. Sherlock presents a dignified air in his suit, and John cannot look anything but worried. As they sit John remembers Sherlock's skull and wishes they were less peculiar. That little piece of morbidity now seems in awful taste.

Instead of saying much themselves they let the older woman talk. Sherlock does not even correct her when she makes minor grammatical flubs. Their side of the room is quiet as she explains the 'bad men' who took his parents and elder brother, and those same bad men forced them onto a plane which, she pauses with an obviously heavy heart as she bears her own grief for a lost adult child, has gone down in the ocean.  
  
“They know 'ow to swim.” Arthur shakes his head as if the adults are the ones not getting it. To him it is a simple matter of going and getting them.  
  
“They've died.” Arthur's grandmother murmurs with finality, not using a euphemism that will only confuse him. “I'm so sorry, Artie dear.” Her thin brittle looking arms wrap around him and yet the child seems confused, not sorrowful.

“When 're they comin' back?” Arthur persists.  
  
Removing a handkerchief from her purse the elderly woman mops at her eyes, sniffling. Feeling a need to help, so useless watching from his seat, John gently murmurs. “They're not coming back.”  
  
A slight downward inflection hits his voice at last. “Don' they.. wanna come back?”  
  
“The plane had an accident.” John remembers his friend's advise – simple language, basic concepts, but above all make it clear. It pains him to say it, but this is what he believes is best. “They can't come back.”  
  
“We c'n pull 'em outta the wa'er..” Arthur continues to insist, believing in his family, and failing to realize the magnitude of damage a falling aircraft could do.  
  
Arthur's grandmother wraps him up in a tighter hug now and the little boy crumbles a bit in confusion – he does not exactly understand what they are trying to impart to him, but everyone is sad and even crying. Everyone says mummy, daddy and Ian are gone, but how could they be?

The little boy pulls away from her, lifting his bright crystalline green gaze to Sherlock and John. “Wha' didn' I do right?” Arthur had brought the important papers to the smart man that his older brother had sworn praises of while reading about him online. Things were supposed to be okay as long as he did that, and Arthur had so why weren't they?  
  
“Nothing!” Cries the old woman worriedly, face turning sopping wet. “Oh honey..”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, unable to hold something back and John jams on his foot out of instinct. He knows that Sherlock is going to say something awful and this time nobody needs to hear it.

After a little while sitting there in bewilderment Arthur gets up and goes to his room. When he asks to be alone there are tears in his eyes so it is little guess why he wants to escape. Immediately John rose to his feet, offering to sit with him, worried about Arthur and feeling lost in the awkward silence.

* * *

  
The figure looks much smaller curled up in the middle of his bed, hugging onto one of the plush toys John had brought. It shreds his heart to pieces watching the youth cry. His noises soft and muffled, barely moving in his grief.

Swallowing harshly, John enters and sits on the edge of the bed, placing a comforting hand on Arthur's back. After little more than a second the child has climbed into his lap and gripped his shirt, crying a wet patch onto John's shirt.  


	8. Chapter 8

As John leaves them to look in on Arthur, feeling his heart wrenched out by the boy's tears, Sherlock is left behind in the living room with his grandmother. A woman who has lost her own child, daughter-in-law, and grandchild, in one fell swoop of madness – of bomb schematics and plane system failure. Instead of saying the wrong thing he says nothing.  
  
Luckily Mrs. Doyle has enough to work through that she carries the conversation enough for the two of them. Once John leaves the first thing the teary eyed lady does is thank Sherlock – for finding the conclusion, as sad as it is, and caring for Arthur in the meantime.

Then she moves into Arthur's care. “I don't know what to do.” Sherlock has already read the signs of rheumatoid arthritis, hip dysfunction, as well as a plethora of other physiological slow downs common to the aged, but he says nothing. “His parents, bless them, are an irreplaceable pair. W-were..” She has to pause at the correction, thin lips pursing together while a fresh tear trickles down her cheek.

* * *

 

John holds the sniffling child, keeping there as long as Arthur clings to him. He says nothing aside from murmuring soft comforting phrases that seem artificial, because how could everything be alright? Still, he says them because those words are what Arthur needs to hear right now.

Finally the lad sets his hands on John's chest and looks up with a sheen on his cheeks. “They're comin' back?”  
  
“I'm so sorry, Arthur.” His voice softens, “They're dead.” John feels gutted with that decimating phrase. It brings John illogical guilt that drags him down in shame.

That tiny brown mop shakes, unwilling to accept those strange words. “I don' un'ers'and..”

Recalling his colleague's words, John takes in a gentle breath and forages ahead. “Everything dies – people, animals and plants. Everything that's alive. It means you don't move anymore. You don't think, or breath.”

“So... where's m'brothe' now?” Murmurs the lad in befuddled sorrow.

A paltry image of a plane sitting at the bottom of the ocean, surrounded by murky darkness, came into John's head. It sticks in his craw and rests there even as he says, “Do you believe in Heaven Arthur?” A slight nod is given in response. John feels relief at finding a simpler answer to grasp on to. “That's where.”

At those words tears flare anew and John is left with slender arms around his neck, a tiny body shaking against his firmer frame.

* * *

 

  
John walks out into the living room some time later. He has lost track of the passage of minutes, but when he enters neither Sherlock nor Mrs. Doyle has moved from their seats. The tea they had put out upon her arrival has grown cold, but nobody has the urge to reheat it, just as nobody had any urge to drink it in the first place.

“He's, ah, fallen asleep..” Announces the doctor on his return. “.. kind of tuckered out..” John murmurs apologetically to the elderly woman who shakes a head, not minding anything that will comfort her grandchild. Besides, she is in no hurry to go home and mourn. She is in no rush for anything at the moment.

“I was just telling your partner I don't know what to do..” Murmurs the woman as John seats himself, trying to steady his expression in the process.

“We're not – I'm his flatmate.” John has still not found a regular way to explain away his living situation with Sherlock. “And we work together, consulting for Scotland Yard.”

“Oh,” The woman manages a polite nod, a rather poor gesture of confusion but both men seem to be giving a feigned ignorance, overlooking it due to her present grief stricken state. She toys with her handbag in a nervous fidget.  
  
“Best guest we've ever had.” John compliments in a sudden burst of effort. He tries breaking the ice with the best he can manage.

“He's always been remarkably conscientious..” Murmurs his grandmother affectionately, holding him all the dearer against the new losses. “I appreciate your watching him, I do.. And your work on the.. what happened..”  
  
Just as she becomes too overwhelmed John steps in, voice gentle but firm. “Arthur's great. We'll be sorry to see him go.” Sherlock turns his head and stares, giving John a look that says 'We?-why-are-you-speaking-for-me' with that irate arrogance clear in his eyes. John levels a response of forced toleration and serious eyes that demand it of Sherlock. The detective looks away and steeples his fingers, saying nothing complimentary nor contrary.  
  
“You're a dear.” The silver haired woman looks to John with faint fondness in her rainy eyes. In better conditions she would have looked upon him more kindly. “I wish one of them survived... I'm not fit for looking after a boy that age.”

“There's no other family members?” John inquires politely, yet the concern is evident in his voice and Sherlock reads it all over his slightly leaning forward posture.

“No..” Mrs. Doyle mumbles regretfully. She shakes her head grievously, “I don't know what I'll do.”

There is a brief silence in which John considers just how the various scenarios may play out in Arthur's life as a result of this case, these deaths.. It's so bizarre, how often they tackle cases that get right to the meat of a person's life, without he or Sherlock ever getting close to the reality of how important their role is. How many cases has he been on, wonders John, in which an indelible mark is left on the client?  
  
What mark will be left on this polite little boy, whose peculiarly clever way endears him to those who know him? John already sees the pain in his eyes, and he has grieved for his parents as an adult. He can barely begin to fathom doing that at five.

John imagines watching Arthur leaving and barely growing up before being horror stricken, or left alone following his grandmother's departure, or just.. leaving. Never seeing John again. It strikes him to the heart and for a moment he has to check that he is physically alright and not having some sort of attack.

When John gets hold of himself he sets his hands on his knees, “Could we help?” Hesitance cannot help but accompany such a question, which is awkward. He needs to know the answer.

“I was hardly putting you to that,” Interjects the elderly woman with surprise.

“John, this isn't something a doctor can fix.” Sherlock's murmurs, looking at him with warning in his eyes and on the slight pivot of the inner edges of his brows.

Taking in a breath, the brown haired ex-military man girds himself in his decision because much as Sherlock's brain is the only one getting any attention, John himself is a careful thinker. He gives the important things in life consideration, and unlike Sherlock, he sees the ramifications of his interactions with others. The decision has been thought through. “I'd still just like to know.” Murmurs John in quiet near-humble honesty.

“I know I wouldn't refuse any.” Replies the woman with a thick confusion yet internally she is touched. There is a spark of humanity warming her cold, aching soul, though consciously she cannot quite place why.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the saddest part of the story. Bear with me, fluff coming.


	9. Chapter 9

Saying goodbye to Arthur was one of the hardest things John has had to do.

It ranked right up there with going to war, rallying against his sister's alcoholism, and losing his own parents. The welling emotion punctured him like a hot knife, and as Arthur's tears started up John was also a bit wet eyed. Inside he felt congested as if suddenly in the second day of an intense cold.

Arthur had gathered his things with blatant regret to leave. Much as he hugged and sniffled in his grandmother's arms, he had believed he would stay there in the flat until his parents came home. The news came as a bit of a shock, though Sherlock and John had expected it from the moment they heard a blood relative was coming. Neither was prepared for the departure - The boy sobbed and hugged onto John, and even Sherlock a little in the middle..

Promising to visit could only ease John's conscious so much. It confounds him that he could treat so many patients and find ways to detach after his day much of the time. Even after the difficult loss of one he could still move on with his own life, but not this time.Going near the now empty room brought unimaginable sadness to him. Even minor things would make him think of the boy - John went to borrow some milk from Mrs. Hudson and saw her rocking chair. Immediately he had thought of Alice In Wonderland and the way Arthur giggled at the rockinghorsefly, and lost his appetite. 

* * *

 

The first time Sherlock and John saw Arthur again was days later when they paid their respects at the funeral. Though they do not attend case-related funerals both have an unspoken agreement to be present at this one.

John's heart is ripped out by the eyes formerly glowing so brightly now turned hollow and swollen with tears. Arthur often turns and sobs against whomever is there, usually his grandmother. His small suit is finely pressed, and his shoes polished, but he still looks worn down.

It was quite a crowd, yet made up only of friends – from their neighborhood, parents' work colleague's, Ian's school pals, but the only relative there was Arthur's grandmother. There are only two left behind to mourn their great pain.

Three caskets are born into the ground at once, breaking everyone's hearts. Sherlock ended up walking off before the end, while John forced himself to keep a straight somber face until the crowd started to disperse.

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes did find himself affected, feeling moved to pity. He begrudged the outcome of the case because of its affect. Yet he also finds himself unable to ignore the effect it has on John. Right away he turns to another case, trying to move on with fresh facts before his eyes.

Sherlock would much rather approach something he can impact, and something that will consume his attentions in a clinical fashion – a case is perfect. Yet while he tries to pull John back into their normal life there is less input than usual. Quietness settles over John.

It is not that Sherlock needs it, but John has proven his use as a catalyst to spark Sherlock's intellect. Now with silence and John staring off into space, Sherlock is suddenly missing their conversations, even if John had already been out of the room for half of them.

After several empty feeling days John refuses Sherlock's offer to run through two boxes worth of evidence. The last time he had done so was days ago, trying to understand what Sherlock had unraveled...

The terrorist cell had been after the nuclear manifesto – brilliant scientists below the law's radar, raw material supplies, black market transporters, etc – and when Arthur's parents only coughed up the schematics they were taken with what Sherlock thought was an attempt at holding them hostage to extort plans. With the perpetrators deceased along with their victims it was anyone's guess.  
  
Needless to say he felt he had had enough for one week. So when Sherlock suggested they dive into the boxes together John refuses and instead declares he is going out. Without stating his destination he turns and leaves through the door. Still holding a box in hand Sherlock watches him go with a slight descending of his lips.

* * *

 

As John walks through the city he is bombarded with reminders of London's sheer expanse. Often he tells himself that there are many children, many orphaned kids, within the city. Yet still he only thinks of one.  
  
In the back of his mind he knew where he was going, feet taking him toward Arthur's address. It lies concealed on a slip of paper in his wallet, but John had memorized it well before his walk. The woman who greets him at the door gives a polite smile at recognizing him, welcoming him.

“I'm pleased to see you.” Mrs. Doyle sounds genuine about that, still a frail way of grief about her yet she looks far better then she did at the funeral. Her lips sum up a sad smile, “The stuffed dog you sent has been in Arthur's bed every night.”  
  
John finds himself wanting to immediately ask about Arthur but instead remains congenial to the woman before him. “How are you bearing up?”  
  
“It's the shock that gets me..” Murmurs the woman, beckoning him into her sitting room with her thin fingers. “I still find myself thinking I might call the house.” She looks down for a moment, finding strength somewhere in the coils of her carpet before looking up. “The emptiness never goes away when you lose a child..” A moment of silence passes before she tries to strike into a more positive vein. “Do you intend to have children, Doctor Watson?”  
  
“I hope to,” John replies amicably, knowing she is trying to make polite conversation. Her sitting room is welcoming with its plush, floral pattern sofas, but John is too busy wondering how the little boy is doing to take in much ambiance.

Suddenly a swift flash latches itself onto John's legs as Arthur spies in through the doorway and rushes in to hug him. The lad grips the older man's legs with all the force he can muster. John chokes back a laugh and pats his head, leaning forward for an awkward but warm hug.  
  
“You've missed John, haven't you?” Asks his grandmother gently, finding herself growing more fond of the man. Arthur nods against John's shin.  
  
For the rest of that visit Arthur crawls all over John, resting in the older man's lap while sucking his thumb. Arthur has become quieter than the boy John had grown to know during their short stay together, but the militant doctor did bring out a few smiles.  


	10. Chapter 10

Originally John had gone in with the mentality of checking up on both Arthur and his grandmother, then backing off as they dealt with grieving, but following the initial visit he had to return again.. and again... So for the next couple weeks John became a regular visitor at Mrs. Doyle's.

During that time Arthur's grandmother and John struck up a friendly rapport. They would sip tea and fall into casual conversation until Arthur came downstairs, or in from outside, or a play date. The neighbors seemed to be doing their darnedest to keep him amused in order to let the elderly woman have a break.

Then, on the third week, she said something to John that startled him.  
  
It was the first time, aside from familial mentions in her moments of grief, that the kindly yet aged lady had opened up intimately to John. Prior to it their conversations had never edged near anything morally ambiguous, not even politics.  
  
“I believe I have to give Arthur up.” She declares gently after setting down her cup and saucer, already blinking the tears out of her eyes.  
  
John, more comfortable with her, and aware of her personality now, reaches out and she quickly takes his hand with her own wrinkled, trembling one. His eyes are wide with surprise but open to her continuing. The very idea of it makes him nervous, as if he is invested in this child, and then he realizes.. that he is. He has been doing things he normally would not have because of Arthur, like religiously coming here for tea..  
  
“I don't want to leave him, but I realize I'm too old to take care of a child this young.” Mrs. Doyle steadies her breathing as emotion carries her aloft. She had found herself suddenly exhausted and unable to keep up with Arthur. “It's not fair to him..”  
  
John is in turmoil as if someone has set off a box of firecrackers in his stomach. “What are you thinking of doing?” John asks solemnly, maintaining his outward calm benevolence.  
  
“I'm not sure..” She admits with apprehensive uncertainty. Acknowledging the fact she cannot keep up with her young grandson is one step, but she has not yet found a solution. Foster care unnerves her though.  
  
Finally a touch of the thick feeling inside him comes out in his voice, it's slight but they both hear it. “Would you consider.. letting someone adopt him?”  
  
Mrs. Doyle looks down into her lap for a moment, fighting the mingling emotions within. “I suppose if I felt they were best for him – I know that's not likely to be me.” She lifts her handkerchief and dabs the corners of her eyes.

“I'm so sorry..” John murmurs as she dissolves into her tears again, squeezing her hand in comfort.  
  
She exhales loudly as her emotional tidal wave abates and shakes her head with a shadow of a smile, “These old bones just can't keep up, Ducks."

John sits clasping her hand until Mrs. Doyle moves on to talk about something that happened at Arthur's school. They remain together for a time, letting the air clear after that heavy confession. Lighter topics are stuck to afterward, and when they part it is only after making plans for Arthur and Mrs. Doyle to come to 221b for tea the next day.

* * *

 

That night John is weighed down by a blend of dreams, only half of which remain with him in the morning, but that is enough. In his happier dreams he saw himself as a parent, and in the nightmares he saw Arthur alone. John Watson knows what he wants to do, but actually doing it is a huge step, such a life changing decision. His heart is boggled by the hesitation his mind brings on.  
  
So when John heads downstairs he expects Sherlock to read his body language and catch the presence of a problem. Instead the consulting detective is elbow deep in some beige glop that appears to be part of a rather messy experiment. John can see a packet of yeast, a beaker, and a box of instant custard, but decides not to ask.

The sandy haired man drags over a chair and sits his rounded form down before the table, across from Sherlock. The detective does not look up from his work, so John has to clear his throat. “Can I ask you something, Sherlock?” He pauses, uncertain. Making the decision on his own is hard enough, but sharing it takes a sagacity John does not feel he has.  
  
“Didn't you just?” Sherlock lifts his eyes off the enthralling experiment and gives a precursory glance to John before returning to the odd stuff.  
  
“Fair enough.” John mutters at his arrogant friend, feeling foolish for expecting anything different. He has spent years with Sherlock yet the man can still surprise him. “So, I was wondering what you'd think if I moved out?”  
  
The tall man tinkering away stops moving. Lifting his hawk eyes with narrowed interest and distrust, he begins to observe the other man “Why?” He asks with an accusatory tone. Suddenly he is wiping his hands of the gloppy plasma and moving to John's side, bending over to get a closer look at him. He sees the drag of John's eyelids and faint bags – a restless night. The crest of his brows, in John, usually means that he has something to say that Sherlock knows he will not like, and he has not yet said it. Moving out is only the start. His lips come together at seeing the mingling of emotion in John's eyes, a stretch between hope and disconcertment.

The back of John's neck prickles as the copper-sheened blue gaze rakes across him. He pushes on like a soldier does when he is in the thick of it. “I don't want to bother you with what I'm planning.” John maintains the evenness of his voice, sounding more collected than he feels.  
  
“What are you planning, John?” Sherlock straightens up and shifts curiously, and they both know he is already finding tells all over John's body, yet both dance around outright admission.

“I think you already know.” John replies, and he is right – because his body language is screaming to Sherlock, and also he has not quite been the same since Arthur left. The regular gusto he goes into cases with – or has once dragged into them by Sherlock – is missing and now sometimes he skips crime scenes altogether. Also John has been nipping out without really telling Sherlock where he is going (he knows it isn't the off license by the length of time John stays out; he walks much further or stops somewhere on the way). Plus, as blind as he can sometimes be to John, Sherlock has caught a few moments where the man looks deep in thought, or horribly lost.  
  
“I've been visiting Arthur's grandmother and she can't keep up, but she doesn't want him in a care home or anything like that.. So I was thinking, maybe with, me.” John cannot help but pause between words, for Sherlock is still staring at him persistently and it unseats him. “What?” He asks, gesturing with his hand palm up.  
  
“He isn't a pet, John.” Sherlock sees this as an impulsive, guilt ridden, decision that might be coming from the right place but he does not see how John could do it – John, move out of 221b and leave him – to be a father? No, Sherlock rejects that as a phenomenon of feelings on John's part.

“I realize that, and I have given this a lot of thought..” John tries to keep his voice measured, doing a fine job of handling Sherlock's churlish responses.  
  
Sherlock keeps them coming though, brow arching. “Are you aware of what you're saying?” His dry voice clips around each word.  
  
“Well I eventually wanted kids.. and a wife too.” He agrees when Sherlock starts to give him a look that forces him to say what the man is thinking. “Going out of order isn't that unusual.” He shrugs a bit helplessly.

“You're asking to change your entire life.” This is an unavoidable fact that Sherlock believes John does not realize, yet he could not be more wrong.  
  
“I can handle change.” John assures, knowing it to be true. He has bounced around quite a bit in life, surviving his family, schooling, the army, and Sherlock Holmes himself. At that thought he quips to lighten the conversation, “Nothing could be more of a change than living with you has been.” One corner of John's lips turned up on his plump cheek, yet instead of sparkling amusement in Sherlock's eyes he sees a minuscule narrowing to them.  
  
“Do you dislike living here, John?” Sherlock asks coolly, a stiffening touch overcoming his usually warm liquidus voice.  
  
“Of course not Sherlock.” John frowns and his features scrunch slightly. He sits up straighter and turns directly toward the detective. “But you wouldn't want a little kid underfoot..”

Sherlock fixes him with that penetrating gaze normally reserved for studying suspected perpetrators in a small window of time, “Do you know how to take care of children?”  
  
“You were a child once, Sherlock.” Points out the militant doctor with his best efforts at matching the genius with a distressingly big ego. An uphill battle, but after years of experience and some proper motivation he strikes back with full force.  
  
“That doesn't mean I have any expertise in the area.” That evil black crescent rises a little more as if mocking John further. “John, be realistic.” Sherlock gently snaps at him in a way that tells the sandy haired man he thinks he is doing it for John's own good.  
  
John snaps right back, “That's just it - I am being realistic.” He raises a finger and points assertively at Sherlock, “Not everyone can be a machine.” He shakes himself mentally as soon as the words fly from his mouth and stops being over dramatic just because his flatmate is. After swallowing and taking a split second to think John regains his sensibility. “She's right, but at the very least you have to agree someday soon he'll need someone else, and if she's his last relative, what then?” John cannot help how pernicious he sounds in that moment, but he wields the words as best he can given his present state of mind.  
  
“John.” His voice is thick, trying to ram through to him. “He is not your responsibility.” Sherlock volleys back logic and honest truth to the man who he now realizes might leave 221b if he does not convince him this is not a good idea.

So John does meet him, but his reply comes from the heart instead of the head, “It doesn't feel that way.” A pall is cast over their already threatened conversation, leaving John to sigh. “I can't help it.”

Before Sherlock can reply the doorbell rings.


	11. Chapter 11

A glance is exchanged between Sherlock and John in that long moment, at least it feels like a long one. John is surprised to see a curious flitter in his flatmate’s normally stoic eyes. He remains steady on in return, and they come to a silent meeting of the minds to table their conversation for later.

This decision is quickly reconsidered by the consulting detective as John opens the door to reveal a familiar little smile under a brown mane, and behind him an elderly woman that Sherlock recognizes as Mrs. Doyle, mostly from sheer association. He watches with a mounting frown as John bends down to hug the child.   
  
“How’re you?” Inquires John with some pleasure at seeing a smile back on Arthur’s face. Instead of replying the boy is too busy making his way over to Sherlock, not trying to be rude but too involved in the moment to listen.   
  
“Arthur!” His grandmother sighs, not used to dealing with such a short attention span. John chuckles and murmurs about kids being kids, letting it roll off his back.  
  
Meanwhile Arthur beams up at the detective, who has only just decided to keep a distance. Sherlock nods in a genial manner, but it holds no warmth whatsoever. Undeterred, Arthur remains bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking up at Sherlock. “Foun’ a new mol’acle?” He inquires to the detective.  
  
Though John is trying to have small talk with Arthur’s grandmother his ears seem to pick up on their conversation instead.

Sherlock recalls their prior lesson to which the boy now refers, and shakes his head, offering the correction. “That would be an element.” The child has not fully grasped the concept he had aimed at but at least he took away something, the midnight haired man supposes.  
  
“I foun’ one..” Arthur murmurs, waving a hand that Sherlock might come nearer to hear what he treated as a precious secret. “The ‘lelemen’ of…” He begins in a hushed voice once the tall man has stooped low. “S’prise!” Arthur shouts and jumps on Sherlock’s bent form, now able to get a hug at the normally out of reach torso.  
  
“I ‘eard tha’ on telly.” Arthur told John once he had walked back over, having seen the sandy haired man grinning over at him and Sherlock moments earlier.

“Come on, Ducks, let’s have some tea.” His grandmother said, patting the boy’s hair.  
  
A soft whine comes from Arthur who looks to John with round imploring eyes, “I wanna play matchb’x cars wi’h John..”  
  
“Did you bring some?” John asks, and he smiles as Arthur triumphantly removes a small backpack. He slowly sinks down to the floor beside the sofa and the boy scrambles to join him, unzipping his bag and dumping out a torrent of small vehicles.

Luckily John has already made the tea so all Sherlock has to do is pour. He sits down near John, nodding to the older woman as he did not want to try to ‘chat’ and get another elbow jab from his friend. Thankfully multitasking is something John knows well, and he rolls the cars around the floor while maintaining a conversation. Occasionally he dips into chatter with Arthur, but the others do not seem to mind his brief departures.  
  
After they bypass the usual catch up and updates, Mrs. Doyle broaches a topic that has been constantly on her mind. “I’ve thought about what you said, John, and I hope you don’t mind but I had a,” She hesitates uncomfortably but carries on, “Private detective investigate you.” Though her instinct and heart felt John was trustworthy a matter of such importance cannot be left to gut reactions.

Sherlock scoffs, not at her protective gesture, but at the nature of such a title as ‘private detectives’ when so-called detectives never truly  _detect_  anything. Compared to him, they are petty amateurs.  
  
Mrs. Doyle instead interpreted Sherlock’s negativity as a besmirching of John’s character on her part and became quick to amend her words to clarify her reasoning, “I felt I had to, given what I’d like to tell you..”

“It’s alright. I understand. We’re not.. exactly orthodox.” John is smiling while looking up at her, but he cannot help think that is so beyond an understatement. He and Sherlock are the oddest, but best fitting, pair of friends he has ever known. Sometimes John does not know what he would do without the man, and these days he freely admits it to himself – just not out loud.

“You have done some amazing things.” Remarks the woman with a soft admiration that lulls Arthur into being interested in their conversation, slowly lifting his head.  
  
“Like wha’?” He asks curiously.  
  
“We work with the police, helping find people who do bad things and stuff like that.” John explained in easily understandable terms. That indeed sounded heroic to Arthur and he settled back down, moving a car along the edge of the sofa leg to begin a vertical climb.

“A real car would not physically be able to move at that angle.” Remarks Sherlock as John copies Arthur. The doctor looks over at him and rolls his eyes.  
  
Mrs. Doyle continues, “If you were trying to say what I believe you were the other day I would like you to consider it. With due seriousness.” She has a faint flush and her hands fidget, letting Sherlock know she is uncertain but hopeful.

John’s lower lip drops and he looks up to her, marveling at what he hears and fathoming it. He looks to Arthur and feels a myriad of emotion surfacing at the prospect before him.

“John, can we talk in private?” Though not the most covert it is polite for Sherlock’s standards, so John does not mind too much. The worst part is rising on his slightly stiff leg but with the sofa cushion supporting his weight he manages rather swiftly.

They might have been ready to dissolve into heated discussion but each holds it in as best they can for the grieving, and already very conflicted, woman sitting on the sofa. Sherlock rises to his feet, unwilling to let this verbal match go without a fight even if he is showing a modicum of decorum by not doing so in front of Mrs. Doyle. John murmurs an apology and they head into the kitchen.

The two men move into the kitchen, and then John steers them a little further in for good measure. He nods to Sherlock, ready for the man to tell him what a bad idea this is and instead heads him off. “I know what I’m obligated to if I do this.” He speaks sternly, in all seriousness now.

“If you adopt him.” Corrects the consulting detective, saying it out loud to make it a reality. “John, this is a peculiar emotional accident resulting from feelings you garnered out of pity, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t.” John replies emphatically, seeming set in his position like a stone in cement. “I have thought about how much this changes things. I may not be you, but I think that’s what makes all the difference in me understanding this.” John almost sound apologetic to his friend, instead of a shouting match that both walked in dreading.  
  
“What do you want?” Sherlock asked as if disgruntled by the idea of John doing such a thing, but to be honest he thought far more selfishly. The fear of John leaving, moving on with something that left Sherlock behind – leaving 221b, or being unable to go on cases because he could not find a babysitter – does paralyze him. Suddenly at the brink of a loss, Sherlock realizes he values John too highly to let the shorter man go.  
  
“I want to be able to live with myself, and if I don’t do what I can, then I don’t think I will.” To his surprise the response comes effortlessly into his mind. A candid smile begins to grace his plump features. “I really think it will be for the best, for everyone.”  
  
After a steady gaze that breaks John down and analyzes however many details that he can see, Sherlock speaks. “Are you sure?” John nods. “Quite certain?” Continues the detective, earning another nod. “Fine then.”

“Fine?” John repeats with mild confusion, as he never asked for permission. Though he supposes it should not surprise him that Sherlock would choose to give or not give a blessing. Yet instead, the detective surprises him again.  
  
“Fine, he can live here.” Stiffly replies the other man.

“Here?” Echoes John again, his misunderstanding no clearer with another question. His brows wriggle as he tries to comprehend, then it dawns on him and sends his eyes wide like two great pools.

“Here, with us.” Sherlock quickly says, finally making it crystal clear.  
  
“Sherlock…” John is astonished and touched at once. To him, he assumes it is a sign that Arthur means more to Sherlock than he thought. Sherlock’s heart exists as he knows, it is just well protected.

Yet for all the social prowess John might have that Sherlock does not, John is wrong. The greatest deciding factor for the detective is that he would rather have Arthur stay with both of them than lose John.


	12. Chapter 12

Strangely John knows he wants to do this. Even before the option manifested before him he felt that he did, but that suspicion solidified into a certainty once adoption became reality instead of a fabulation in the back of his mind. He still tries to approach the decision in a professional manner, weighing out the choice against how it will affect Arthur's life, his own life, and others, but his heart remains light as he does...  

Harry is the first person John tells. His sister is intrigued but reserves judgment when he speaks with her on the phone. He does not much appreciate her light hearted comment to buy a dog or marry Sherlock first though. Even after years with nothing happening between them the occasional joke is still made – he simply remains firm and responds to the real crux of the issue, not correcting Harry any more, or anyone else for that matter. John has spent years correcting others as to what he and Sherlock are to each other, and if people still want to joke now he lets them and ignores it.

Meanwhile John grows more impressed with Sherlock's response to his adoption attempt. Not only did the lanky man acquiesce to having Arthur stay at 221b, he also surprises John by offering to help in the lengthy preliminary stages. The two dive headfirst into research and paperwork instead of taking on some mysterious sleuthing.  
  
“Many of the courses won't be pertinent, but you're required to take them.” Sherlock remarks, recalling his research of much earlier. Though now he digs in a new vein – full guardianship, not temporary

John lifts his eyes and tries to fight the smile threatening to dawn across his lips. “How do you know that?” He asks as he waits for the printer to finish spitting out the forms he has just downloaded.

“I looked them up once. When you first showed interest.” Then Sherlock acts as if he is ignoring John and looks back down at his present task. “You're as transparent as everyone else, John.” He mutters bitingly to the computer screen.  
  
Even though Sherlock's words are rancorous John's smile finally breaks through like sun peaking over clouds.

* * *

 

In very little time John has returned to Mrs. Doyle's home, this time with Sherlock in tow. The two men sit in her doily laden room with all the comfort they had while waiting in the dark in Kitty's apartment. Today her loveseat seems to sag under the combined weight of Sherlock and John.

“I've given it careful thought and I do want to adopt Arthur, if you'd let me.” John begins once they have settled beyond pleasantries.

“You're sure?” Mrs. Doyle murmurs, chewing on her lower lip for a split second before releasing it.  
  
“I am.” John replies solemnly. “I know what I'm taking on, and.. I do want to be a father.” John admits with greater sentimentality then he meant to. “I know we're unusual,” He gestures to he and Sherlock, “But Arthur seemed to be pretty happy when he was there with us. If he can't have his parents, we'd be honored to have him.. Mostly me, but Sherlock is going to help.”  
  
“I hate to pry but – you are financially secure enough to take on a child?” Mrs. Doyle asks with clear awkwardness, as asking about such is not something she was raised to do. But in the more difficult moments of life, such as this one, etiquette takes a back seat to family.

“Yes. Sometimes cases pay well, and I do still practice.” John's fingers tangle together in a loose fold. He approaches it as a required discussion in his mind. “I know we have a busy life at times but our housekeeper is retired and willing to watch Arthur for a few hours when a case comes up suddenly.” Mrs. Hudson had been delighted at the endeavor her dear tenant and friend was preparing to undertake and offered to help immediately.

John adds a little quicker than he means to, “There are months that stretch on without cases sometimes.”  
  
“Such an interesting profession.” Mrs. Doyle comments politely, indeed she has been intrigued by what sounds like a modern-day James Bond career. She does find Sherlock remarkably handsome and fit for the part, too, though that is not presently on her mind when her concern is on Arthur.

“John!” Cries a small tenor voice. The adults turn toward the doorway, only to move their heads right back as Arthur scrambled across the room and forcefully attached himself to John. The little boy giggles and tries to squeeze John's arm as tight as he can, making John laugh while a paternal longing lingers painfully within him at knowing he might well be hugging a child he will take as his own son.

Once Arthur has exhausted John's arm muscle he moves onto the couch beside the brunette. Sherlock got a wave in greeting from him when Arthur peeked around John's back. His other hand lifts to his mouth, keeping it there to suck on his thumb.

It feels like someone has lit a fire under his stomach when the room grows quiet. Nobody else says anything, and John realizes they are waiting for him to broach the topic to the one whose opinion matters the most..

Rampant nerves hamper his visage that hardly feels as if it was collected mere minutes ago. John settles his back against the sofa cushion as if physical security might translate into mental stability, but it does not. Still, looking down at expectant forest-greens and a toothy smile gave him a touch of courage.

After all John has lived through he knows how to take a little bit of courage and turn it into an ocean's worth. He sighs and feels a bit better as his careful voice broaches the topic, “Would you like to live with us?” He adds in an attempt to correct himself, “With Sherlock and I.”  
  
“Wha' abou' m' mummy an' daddy an' Ian?” Arthur frowns and shakes his head. He does not understand why they are still not home. The concept has not sunken in yet and he finds it peculiar John would ask him that when he expected his family to come back someday.  
  
“They won't be coming back.” Murmurs Mrs. Doyle as soothingly as she can muster, but Sherlock and John hear the fight in her voice, but Arthur does not notice. “I'm sorry – remember what I said yesterday about how much they loved you and wanted you looked after? They can't come back, honey.”  
  
Arthur sinks in a little, sucking harder, as the news seems all the fresher each time he disbelieves it only to find reality brought back. Everyone says dead – and that dead means not moving, like sleep you don't wake up from – but what does that mean? How can you not wake up? Arthur cannot believe that this is really how it works.

“I love you, Artie.” Murmurs Mrs. Doyle, opening her arms and Arthur automatically went to her. “I don't think I can raise a little boy at my age, no matter how much I want to.”

Arthur hugs her tight for a moment before loosening up and settling back to sit on her lap. There is a little bout of silence as he quite briefly mulls over what he has heard. He then looked to John with a hint of melancholy mixed with intrigue, then back to his grandmother. “C'n John live 'ere? In m'room?”

The novel suggestion gets a smile from John, but Sherlock scowls at both its lack of feasibility and at the idea of John's leaving. Arthur simply thought they would all live together.  
  
“I don't think that would work.” Mrs. Doyle smiles at his precocious idea and the obvious fondness Arthur has for John in particular. “You don't need to decide now but it is something to think about, okay?” She murmurs, kissing his forehead and sighing as the conversation comes to as best a completion as such a difficult talk could end.

 


	13. Chapter 13

“John?” Says the elderly voice on the other end of the line. “Arthur has agreed.” She seems relieved to have said it, even if the sadness is still there.  
  
John exhales out his own relief and a wash of emotion hits him knowing that he will have a child of his own very soon. He leans his back against the wall for some support, as his legs seem to have gone wobbly. “Thank you.. I-”  
  
Whatever John was about to say never came out as the phone is yanked from his hand and replaced in its cradle. With an incredulous expression he turns toward the source of the elegant hand that had snatched him away mid-way through what may well be the most important conversation of his life.  
  
“Sherlock!” He cries indignantly with his mouth still open well after the cry has left him. John's anger is in his eyes, but his voice cannot move past shock. “What is _wrong_ with you?!”  
  
“We have a case, John.” Sherlock says as if such information is a glaringly obvious override of importance compared to his phone call. Euphoric enthusiasm is there in the detective's eyes, just as it is at every chance for intellectual glory. “Let's go.” He turns around, heading to grab his coat and expecting John to follow.

“Sher- No. I'm making this call.” John insists at Sherlock's back. His flatmate turns with a dubious look, and, keeping the stare, John reaches for the phone. The brunette pulls it off and lifts his finger to dial. Sherlock turns back around and continues to walk out, so John ignores him and returns to the phone. “Five minutes!” He calls, then after realizing who he is asking to wait amends it, “Two minutes!”

* * *

 

“I was wondering if you would do what you could to move my application process along.” John begins with the greatest care and delicacy, as if disarming a bomb instead of begging a favor.  
  
Greg Lestrade looks on with his shock still remaining. Of all the outrageous things he has heard out of John's mouth this almost takes the cake. For a moment he looks confused at John's request.  
  
“Talk to people..” John explains while trying not to sound pushy. “That kind of thing.”  
  
“It's not my department, but I'll do what I can.” Greg agrees in a helpful yet humble manner, taking the request seriously even though it might be one of the oddest ones he has had – and he has worked with Sherlock for over a decade now.  


“What were you saying to Lestrade?” Asks Sherlock with a concerned narrow stare once John walks back toward him. The two are at a crime scene on a construction site, but most of the heavy work has finished – at least enough that the perpetrator is known, along with his whereabouts, so they can go.

“Nothing, just helping me with the paper pushing.” John sighs as Sherlock makes a face at the idea of involving Lestrade. “He knows people.” John says, determined to stick with his course of action.  
  
The detective pouts with a hint of frustration in his eyes and stops walking with John. Instead of staying to mollify the childish man John continues walking. He is still irked about the phone call earlier, so Sherlock can sod off for all he cares.  
  
A wall of scaffolding shifts slightly, by no more than a quarter of an inch, but even the most minute shifting is all that is needed to trigger the heavy metal that has no base to support it which would have been fine on concrete, but not on the dusty ground where it was.

Sherlock turns at the yawing sound of metal beginning to take through the air. He catches sight of it coming down right at him and quickly looks over the looming structure. With a graceful two step he moves to the right and down. Just in the nick of time, as the scaffolding falls with a clash to the ground.

John turns and catches sight of the scaffolding coming down, and Sherlock.. Then his mind goes blank. All concern and all hope leaves him – everything in his existence is Sherlock, about to be crushed. His heart stops when it falls, and hammers as if having an attack when Sherlock begins to walk away. The detective not at all taken aback, but John is.  
  
John almost watched everything that is his world shatter, and he never knew.

* * *

 

Later on John is alone in the flat, thankfully. Sherlock is paying a visit to the morgue to field a theory requiring a freshly deceased body. John is not sure why - he had been a touch preoccupied and, truth be told, he was trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze when the detective told him.

The detective's departure is a boon to John who finds himself needing time to think. They have been near death so many times – John has thought Sherlock would die before, yet now when everything is on the brink of changing the possibility of that loss is too great. Needing time to absorb this, John paces in his bedroom.

Though not as swift minded as Sherlock, John is certainly not thick in the head. He cannot stop thinking as his mind feels turned upside down with the knowledge that he has feelings for his best friend.  
  
John stops his pacing and clears his throat. "Sherlock, we've been friends for..." John shakes his head slightly, "No."

He pauses for more thought, then John changes his tone to a more serious one. "I don't really understand why but I.." He sighs, unable to say 'find myself fancying you.' The words sound foreign in his mind, and his tongue is already uncomfortable enough in what he has tried so far.

"No bloody good." John mutters, sitting on the edge of his bed and brushing his warm, worn hand over his face. The words fail to come out properly even when no one else is listening.


	14. Chapter 14

Before John knows it he is filling out paperwork and spending his time feeling like a kid at university again as he becomes immersed in research. John gets into the preparatory stage of the adoption process with both feet firmly planted.

Luckily, Lestrade speeds along what he can with words in the right ears. After John sends in paperwork allowing a criminal record check, the check itself moves swiftly. John comes out fine in that regard, having nothing to stain his character save for a few school yard brawls.  
  
Presently, John has held the same position as an acting physician for two years. He likes the center he works at, along with his peers. They are especially good about his fluctuating schedule as cases can, and do, crop up at any time. Thus his employment checks go through without a hitch and financially he is considered well off enough to look after a child even as a single parent.  
  
References secure his amicable personality, responsible nature, and endless patience. John asked for references from his present and past employers, a former commanding military officer, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Mycroft Holmes. John hopes that words from men in power – from the military to the government – will hold some sway. The only person he does not ask for a reference is Sherlock.  
  
Lately he has been a little odd toward Sherlock due to his newly discovered feelings. Given their flatshare, case work, and pooled efforts in Arthur's adoption, they are in constant contact with each other so he quickly learns to work around it.

Yet with more passing glances John imagines what it might be like to be with Sherlock, in a romantic way. To kiss his brow and whisper something in his perfect ear.. If Sherlock would have him. That thought niggled at the back of his mind like a colony of termites.  
  
One particular evening it became very easy to forget his affinity for Sherlock as the man decided to take the opportunity to challenge John's decision, or at least, question the other man's certainty on it.  
  
“Are you sure you're doing the right thing, John?” Sherlock asks with a small stack of various documents from printouts to pamphlets perched on his thigh. They've stayed in that afternoon to plow ahead with John's researching.  
  
“Yes.” John answers with a quick tongue like he is back in the service.  
  
“Are you familiar with the term devil's advocate?” Sherlock asks with a leveling stare. The man steeples his violinist's fingers and waits indolently for an answer.  
  
“Of course.” John can see where this is heading and shifts in his chair, lips pressing together slightly as he surveys his friend who he feels looks irritatingly stoic.

“Allow me,” Sherlock makes a small sweeping gesture with his wrist. He would like the other man to indulge him in this little conversation.  
  
John's lips draw into a true pout at last, small but ready to dislike where this went. He could weather whatever Sherlock would come up with, though he still shrugged and remarked. “When has that ever stopped you?”  
  
An infinitesimal smile quirks at the corners of Sherlock's lips in a threat to appear but it is stemmed by the knowing that he is about to enter into a serious discussion with John. One that he has avoided up until now, out of respect to John's need to have him on his side. Sherlock has always been impressed by the way John sticks by him. With the opportunity to do the same he has tried to do his best.  
  
But – and there is always a but – John is about to change his entire life and Sherlock has to make John, who is sadly of only average intelligence, aware of every last fact, whether Sherlock is familiar with children or not.

“You're aware of the danger in our lives.” Sherlock remarks on the first and most obvious point with his mental checklist in hand. He studies John and is impressed that he remains collected under that initial layer of annoyance.

“Plenty of people have kids with dangerous jobs.” John rebuffs him with ease and a simple response that is succinct but reasonable enough.  
  
Though he dislikes the words as they come out of his mouth Sherlock has no hesitance in saying them. “What would happen to him if you died?” He moves the papers off his thigh.

John chuckles low under his breath and looks at Sherlock with a curious air of amusement. “I can't die.”  
  
Sherlock fixes him with a curious and doubtful look. John may be average minded but he is realistic and a touch intelligent enough to know better than to believe himself invincible. He knows there is something, some joke, he is missing.

John clears his throat, “The world can't put up with you without me.”

Sherlock's eyes narrow slightly and yet he knows better than to be deterred by such talk. A simple attempt at rerouting the conversation that he will not falter for. He knows better than to fall for John's tricks.  
  
“You want to do this without a wife?” Sherlock continues posing another difficult yet necessary questions bluntly.  
  
“I know what I'm doing.” John's response is not what Sherlock expects, and it raises a red flag. Though John is thinking of his recent feelings perhaps precluding that in future if he acts on them.  
  
“Are you concerned, John?” Sherlock continues on the subject of a partner, seeking more data on John's reactions.  
  
“It's just life Sherlock – you can't plan everything.” John dismisses the thought of his feelings by focusing on Arthur. “He's here and in need right now, not when it's most convenient for me and that's fine.”  
  
“As well as the time he was here went, I don't think a lifetime would work.” Sherlock made a gesture to the living room. “We keep evidence around the flat – what if he draws on a suicide note?”  
  
“I've been meaning to ask you about that. I want you to stop putting eyes, blood, and all body parts and fluids in the fridge.” John had more to say but Sherlock looks offended at the idea, so he stops and has to persist. “Some things will have to change. Didn't you think so when you agreed with me?”  
  
“Not this much.” Sherlock murmurs contemptibly, half under his breath. His voice rises back up to normal volume with additional rebellion, “I can't stop doing experiments, John. Not working is letting my brain atrophy.”  
  
“We'll figure something out, but you have to see that keeping that kind of stuff around is not safe. If they see any of that during a house check, it's over.” John answers with grave sincerity. Even with Arthur's grandmother in agreement he still needs to be cleared by the government and go through each procedure, save for looking for an adoptive child. “So all body parts, human, or pig, or anything else, is not allowed.” John finishes, and he finds himself glad when Sherlock keeps his disgruntled attitude to his eyes and says nothing against it.

Instead Sherlock moves on to the next matter of business. “Do you really think your life is conducive to raising a child?”

“Yes, and I think there are more people out there having kids who aren't ready for them in far worse circumstance than me.” John continues to counter back with concise measured words.  
  
“What will you do when clients come outside of nap time?” Sherlock raises a brow reluctantly to his friend as he presents that idea of an obstacle.  
  
“Now you're being ridiculous, Sherlock.” John only just holds back showing that the idea of it bothers him. “Kids might be a little attention seeking but that doesn't mean we'll never have another moment's peace.”

“I was lead to believe that's exactly what parenthood is.” Sherlock retorts conceitedly. “What about the hours of peace and quiet I need to think about a case?” He looks dubiously as if he has found the golden ring and is about to end the discussion in his favor.  
  
“He can play in his room,” They had already agreed to convert guest quarters into Arthur's room permanently. “Or go to Mrs. Hudson's for telly. I'll put a telly in my bedroom and let him watch in there if the noise really bothers you, but half the time you zone out so much you don't even notice if I'm in the room or not.”  
  
“Yes, John, but you're quiet.” Sherlock immediately dismisses the back end of John's argument, to the sandy haired man's chagrin.

“You do know he'll be in school weekdays.” John sighs at the obvious remark .

“Crimes don't take weekends and holidays off.” Sherlock steamrolls ahead with his remarks. “And are you prepared to have him interact with every person we're in contact with?”  
  
“I don't care what Mycroft thinks about it, and I know your brother takes some getting used to. I'm going to ask him not to have Arthur picked up in his motor like he always does.” John shakes his head at the mention of Sherlock's elder brother. He has not yet heard Mycroft's opinion on his adoption. John pulls out his phone and texts Mycroft, asking that he send his reference in on some of his 'terrifying government stationary' as he decides to finally ask for something from the man who has long considered John to be his brother's keeper. Since Mycroft cares for Sherlock, he does owe John something and now years later John has a reason to collect.  
  
“Actually I was thinking of Moriarty.” Sherlock softly says while John is clicking out his text.

John lifts his eyes with a mild look of surprise. Though, he has expected that name to crop up for some weeks now. “He's been silent for over a year.”  
  
“Silence is no assurance of inactivity.” His eyes add the point whether at present or in future. Sherlock shifts his hands in his lap.

“I still don't see him as a reason to live differently.” John says with a steadying look that Sherlock finds impressive, even if it is not an interminable gaze. “We're not the usual standard household but we can offer him a good home, and you can't argue that can you?”  
  
Sherlock half nods with a slow reluctant agreement.  
  
His unwillingness to outright agree made John believe he was held in disesteem, and he began to frown. He looks Sherlock directly in the eye and asks modestly, “Do you think I'd make a good father?”  
  
After a short but contemplative silence with Sherlock looking upon him in genuine consideration he sat up straight and responded definitely. “Yes, John.”  
  
Feeling a touch elated at nothing short of praise, he leaned back in his chair and picked up another fostering book to continue. John felt that their discussion was over, and to his surprise, he likes where it has ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time skip during this chapter - following UK's July, 2013 updated foster process with some creative modifications to move it along quicker then it would in actuality.


	15. Chapter 15

“Thanks for scrubbing the lino, Mrs. Hudson.” John says appreciatively as the woman pats his shoulder while walking by with two rubber gloves in hand. He turns and catches sight of his flatmate fussing with some books instead of shifting the bookcase itself.  
  
“Sherlock move it, would you?” John sighs exasperatedly and turns back to his present task at the kitchen counter.  
  
The entire apartment is in an uproar as if the Queen herself were making a visit. Furniture has been moved aside and dusted, rugs shook outside, the apartment doors and windows flung wide to air it, and anything that could be washed or scrubbed has.  
  
For John's initial visit with a care worker he intends to have everything looking up to snuff. It concerns him that something might go amiss. Really it is meant to be a chance for introductions and for the process to be explained to him, but John knows that starting off on the right foot will be a boundless help.

“Those are lovely.” The sandy haired man smiles as Mrs. Hudson reappears with a vase full of fresh flowers. A little something she picked up to brighten the occasion, thinking along the same lines as John.  
  
He neatens the kitchen further, making sure every inch appears tidy. His eyes sweep across the fridge clear of body parts, the kitchen table free of scientific equipment, the clear expansive clutter-free countertops, and through the doorway where the mantelpiece is missing a skull. Though he is pleased with the set up it does not quite feel like home to be this clean.

* * *

  
John worried for the initial visit, but he felt it entirely worthwhile when the woman remarked on how lovely the flat looked. She is a member of the local authority's adoption agency, whose headquarters are just two miles away. They are now John's agency, and the man has a packet to fill out to get things started...

A week after the initial visit he turns in the adoption workbook his agency provided him – full of his own personal information ranging from his family background, to eduction and finances, his health, relationships, questionnaires about people who could provide support, pets, past child care experience, etc.  
  
John's application goes through smoothly and swiftly, the first stage getting stamped for approval after a total of four weeks. He knows that speed came about because of his connection to Mycroft, as he is the sort of person that isn't in the right place, he puts people in those places he is so far above them.

Really the thing that slowed it to four weeks is that his own physician could not get him an appointment until around then and he needed to pass a health check too (he did). Living in London allows John to easily find classes and information sessions specifically suited to adoption. The hardest part is not the classes, but preparing the flat itself. Childproofing to modern day standards is nothing like it was when John was a kid.  
  
And lately Sherlock is no help at all so John must do the childproofing to the apartment alone. He finds every spare wall socket, and every cupboard door, and applies protectors and latches. He takes down dangerously stacked piles of books and clears space so things will not fall. Meanwhile Sherlock works on a case and only adds to the mess by piling up evidence.  
  
Sherlock's recent obsession is only fifty hours old – a case involving a burglar that soundlessly drills into targets from adjacent stores. The detective is impressed that he has yet to deduce how they move their equipment.  
  
So when John asks Sherlock if he will watch Arthur while he goes with Mrs. Doyle to pack up Arthur's parents' house he is surprised that the detective agrees. John expected to be told Sherlock had too much to do with the drilling burglar to watch a child, yet the raven haired man agrees and John finds himself grinning a bit too giddily.  
  
He still has no idea what to say about his budding emotions for his best friend, flatmate, and case partner. Instead he has stayed silent about them, but in moments like this the signs do bleed through. John tries to stop himself, but he just cannot help it. Sherlock has been so good about helping him with Arthur that he knows the detective must like the boy – or else why would Sherlock let him live there? At least that is what John supposes.

* * *

 

  
John may have a bad leg occasionally, but today is a good day for it. It has bothered him less and less lately to be honest. He can easily carry some boxes for Mrs. Doyle, watching the snowy haired woman go through her family's furniture and personal effects.  
  
She wraps up some small trinkets to take back with her but most of it will go in a charity van outside – furniture, appliances, dish ware, and many of the personal items that Mrs. Doyle could not bear to keep.  
  
When the last of the piled up boxes had been taken to their respective locations John went upstairs to find what needed bringing down and saw her hugging onto an old jacket that must have belonged to her son. With it pressed firmly under her nose she must have been smelling it, perhaps for his cologne.  
  
She lowers it slightly when she catches John watching her, and he waves her on with an apologetic look. John begins to back up so that he might leave but she beckons him in, and slowly he enters. “Sorry.. Is there anything I can take down?”  
  
She pats the side of a filled box, “This for charity.” The shirt is folded and set aside after a brief pause with it in her arms. “And I think Arthur should have this."

“Aren't you going to keep it?” Remarks John, and though he is not Sherlock he does notice that only the one shirt is out so far. “Or something else?”

“I can't see the point. It's just more for someone else to clear from my home soon enough.” She remarks despairingly and it brings John into the depth of her gloom.

He moves to the elderly woman's side and wraps his arms around her shoulders. “Take what you need.” She takes a gentle hold of him at first, but the longer their hug goes the firmer she grips John.

Before too long she lets go and pats his arm gently, “Is that the speckled gray one?” She points to the box and a jersey that lies atop it. The coloring is light but appealing.  
  
“Yes, and it's very nice.” John comments with gentle enthusiasm, staying by her side.  
  
The prim woman whose posture has straightened up enormously nods and pulls the jersey off the top of the box, setting it side. It seems she will listen to John and keep that. “On we go.”

* * *

  
“Have you ever played cops and robbers?” Sherlock asks carefully as Arthur sits across from him. He has been sworn by John not to engage in any experiments while watching the boy, and instead to devote his full attention to him. So Sherlock finds a far more interesting but still informative way to pass his time.  
  
Arthur has brought his Transformers backpack full of small toys, action figures, matchbox cars, crayons and a coloring book. The prospect of playing such a game with someone who has actually been a police officer of sorts. “Mhm, c'n we play?”  
  
Sherlock nods, already quite willing as he has his own modus operandi for this little game. Ever since John has finalized his intentions on paper the consulting detective has been looking all the more closely at Arthur himself.  
  
“Yer th' 'tective.” Arthur declares, which is exactly what Sherlock hoped he would do.  
  
“Instead of the running around part, let's play what comes next – the interrogation.” At Arthur's blank look Sherlock continues to explain, “Going into the room and getting them to admit they did the crime.” He tones it down to the level he would use if trying to get Anderson to fathom it, and it works if the sudden grin on Arthur's face is any indication.  
  
The child gets up off the floor, leaving behind a small truck, and walks over to the chair across from Sherlock. He climbs into it, to be 'interrogated'.  
  
“Your name is Arthur Doyle?” Sherlock asks in the utmost of serious voices.  
  
His devotion to his part makes the little brunette giggle, but he soon tries to get a hold of himself only to let loose peels of laughter for a moment. When he stops he tries to take the smile off his face and fails, “Yes!”  
  
“And you happen to be a minuscule sized person?” Sherlock continues without gaining any leeway in his tone.  
  
“Imma kid.” Arthur says agreeably, just rewording the man's lengthier verbiage.  
  
Sherlock nods to him, “And you stole the jelly babies?”  
  
“Ye-um, no..” He lowers his voice slightly, dropping out of character, “I don' say yea this early, righ'?” Arthur asks questioningly as he hesitates. Then he shakes his head to refuse the thievery with a brave fase.  
  
“They were John's jelly babies.” Sherlock has the slightest bit more expression.  
  
“Oh then I didn'!” Arthur exclaims assuredly at the dispositive remark.  
  
“So you like John?” Sherlock is back to his own usual level instead of overtly serious.

“An' you.” Arthur adds after he nods a yes to Sherlock's question, following the detective's lead to drop out of the game's character.

“You'd like to come live here?”  
  
Arthur looks confused but then nods because yes, of course he did, but were they not just playing a very entertaining game?

“Do you get up in the night?” Sherlock inquires as if asking anyone, gaining no charm with a youthful verbal sparring partner.  
  
“Nope..” Arthur replies simply because he has not known himself to have done so. The time when he first stayed at 221b it had happened out of nerves.  
  
“Do y-” Sherlock begins when he gets interrupted by Mrs. Hudson walking through the open door.  
  
“Oh hello dear!” She greets Arthur cheerful, having not expected him. The little lad smiles up at her with a flash of his verdant gaze. “Post for you.” She hands it to Sherlock with a direct stare to get the importance across. “I think this first one is something John should see.”  
  
Sherlock looks down at the small pile of envelopes and sees that the top one is from the adoption office place board. As Mrs. Hudson begins to walk away he rips it open and takes out the letter, reading it while Arthur scrambles over to him.

* * *

  
Later, Mrs. Doyle and Arthur left after tea, and John turned his attention to the open letter atop the mail pile.  
  
“Sherlock why would you open my mail?” John is angry with his flatmate's constant violation of his privacy but he is already pulling out the folded letter because he is more interested in that. He hopes finding out what they have to say can only be better news. “That's against the law.”  
  
“Not when it's yours.” Remarks the detective from his perch and John is not certain whether to feel a bit touched or still annoyed.  
  
“Why not me?” He outright decides to ask, pausing to look up for a split second.  
  
“It goes without saying.” Sherlock replied easily.

John would love to smack him for the vagueness to his remarks. “I don't think so.” His eyes are already moving along the first line, the perfunctory greeting.  
  
“It's not as if I wasn't going to read it anyway.” Points out the dark haired man as he looks back to his sandy topped friend with a slight pudge to his middle.  
  
John ignores him as he is deep within reading and his face is breaking out in beaming. He has been assigned a social worker for his case by the name of a Mrs. Whitsett. A date has been given for John to meet with her, kicking off the beginning of the training and assessment phase.  
  
He feels as if he has stepped out of a smoky pub and into the warm, fresh, summer air. Things are moving ahead.

* * *

  
  
That evening long after things have wound down, and celebrations have been had for this leaped hurdle, John turns to Sherlock once they are alone. “Sherlock..” He begins with a swallow as he prepares himself for the thing he has to say, “What you did today helping out, that was great.”  
  
Sherlock nods slightly in a more dignified fashion than usual. He watches John lounging in his pajamas on the sofa.  
  
John feels butterflies even though he knows he ought not before he says, “It makes me happy to know you like Arthur.”

“I don't.” Sherlock remarks, making John's stomach fall faster than a bowling ball dropped off a tall building. At John's signs of distress, and the aghast look in his creamy brown eyes, Sherlock adds pointedly, “I don't dislike him. He is a child.” He sounds distant and uninterested in the entire affair. “Generally they are all the same little figures with the most convoluted ideas about reality.” Sherlock picks up a book to leaf through in his time off, still needing to occupy his mind and electing to use the elegant flowery prose of a novelist to do so. A little time off may allow his subconscious to ruminate on the burglar case.  
  
Voice faintly clipped, John remarks under his breath like a porcupine with its quills snapped, “I bet he knows the earth travels 'round the sun.”  
  
“That isn't impressive.” Sherlock replies at normal room volume with the book still concealing his face from view. He is irritated but there is no helping that. The detective peeks childishly over the top of the page, and at that John finds he has had enough.  
  
The militant man rises and goes to walk up to his room, but when he turns to walk out he only takes a few steps before stopping. John turns back and looks in befuddlement at Sherlock, “Sorry – then, why have you been helping?” Inquires the man who thought that at every junction Sherlock has fought for the boy out of affinity. If not that, then John does not know what.  
  
“Because you want him.” Sherlock's reply is so simple and swift that it cannot be anything but true. As soon as John hears it, he realizes that the detective's reactions were for him and not Arthur. As sad as he is in one respect, having thought Sherlock was making a connection, he cannot help but flush slightly knowing that Sherlock cared that much about someone else – him.  
  
“So what I want really matters?” John asks slowly as the situation's gravitas dawns on him like a warm sunrise. It has only taken six years, but it seems that Sherlock is finally acknowledging someone else in his decision making.  
  
Not only that, but John matters so much that Sherlock is willing to let a child live with them, and enter almost every aspect of their knit-together lives. Sherlock has never given any inclinations towards tolerating children, let alone liking them, and he has already said he does not like Arthur, but he allows it. John cannot help but feel remarkably touched by the usually emotionally stolid man's response to his own paternal needs.  
  
Sherlock huffs in what John knows as fake offense and it only makes the man feel better. Instead of leaving John walks back across the room and hugs Sherlock around the shoulders. He does not think of his feelings, or his shame for concealing them while holding Sherlock so tight, he just thinks how good the other man is, and how lucky John is to have him for a dear friend.  
  
That night as John lies back in bed he might consider it a more romantic gesture, but in that moment as it happens his intentions are purely amicable and thankful.


	16. Chapter 16

John forces Sherlock to keep the flat's remarkably clean state as near pristine as possible while waiting for his first in-house visit. The skull is relegated to Sherlock's bedroom, and all of his laboratory equipment is sitting down in 221c in boxes. For now Sherlock has turned to St. Bart's equipment for his studies, but never stays too long with Molly always hovering.   
  
Sherlock has piles of evidence around from a new case as the burglar one was solved ages ago; A bait and switch by one of the staff though expertly done due to an unknown past criminal history. Now Sherlock is on a thief burning through things with chemicals, out of sheer interest for his methodology.  
  
He is not happy to be kept from something so interesting just so John could have a clear counter. “Why shouldn't they like it as it is?” Sherlock asks, looking around their former pack rat style apartment that he had found quite lovely.  
  
“Sherlock, I don't want to look like a muppet.” John says irately after yet another complaint from the detective pouting at him from across the room. “Two days.” He reminds gently, knowing that the first visit will soon be over with.  
  
“And then you'll be counting the days at me, until the next one.” The consulting detective, with an annoyingly perfect memory when he wanted it to be, replies with precise categorical purpose, “She did say six.”  
  
John looks up at the testy detective sitting not far from him, putting down the parenting book, Big Steps For Little People, that he had been reading (which coincidentally led him to realize that Arthur's thumb sucking is a sign of regression). True, he supposes he would be forcing the other man to keep the flat clean, but breaking up the goals individually had just come to him naturally. Noticing Sherlock's anxiousness he sighs, “Let's get through the first.”  
  
Sherlock pushes off from the armrests of his chair with a faint scowl on his face. He begins to head for his room, feet gently stomping with each step.

John sees the way his shoulders hunch and stops Sherlock by saying, “I moved them out of the skull.” The man stops and clenches a fist. John continues, “Last year I stopped using that.”

“Do you really think I don't know you're using Mrs. Hudson's rhododendron pot?” Sherlock snipes at him in a smug, knowing air.

John quietly says, “I stopped with that last month.” He waits and only gets a nimble, salient stare in return for his words, nothing sharp or biting in return. Not only does he want the man healthy, but he asked him to quit as smoking around children is frowned upon and he does not want to give them a reason to refuse him. So, to distract him, John asks, “Do you want to go for a walk?”  
  
“Have you put them in the flat?” Sherlock murmurs with an accusatory glance around the room before him as he takes a few steps forward.  
  
“I'm not trying to get you out of the flat.” John sighs and sets the book aside, standing and walking to his flatmate. He tugs on Sherlock's arm with a discerning stare, “I'm trying to clear your head. Come on.”

The shorter man is made of sturdy stuff, and he proves it by tugging the detective along. They stop for their shoes and coats, and after that Sherlock willingly comes on his own, though John wishes he had an excuse to grip a handful of the black wool.

* * *

  
Mrs. Doyle made a formal written request to speed up the process. Given the abrupt nature of Arthur's situation and John's immediate willingness, the agency agrees to put a rush on the registration and assessment aspects of the adoption process.. Again John wonders how much sway Mycroft Holmes had.  
  
Mycroft might well have put in a word or two on that, but he would not look funnily at anything that helped – associating with Sherlock may have sullied his record in the past, such as that misattributed graffiti problem a long while back to name a minor incident, and none of that seemed to be mentioned on the checks of John's local authority records so John was already grateful to the elder Holmes.  
  
The flat is given a going over, but after the thorough job from their first visit, and Sherlock being swatted at by John, there is not as much to do. Still, John flitters around the flat in the hours before she comes, straightening this or polishing that, to the point that a hypochondriac would feel at home in 221b.  
  
Additionally, before the visit he already has table corner guards and child proofed some cabinets. Any visible sign to show readiness John tries to jump. He knows being denied approval will kill the hope of taking in Arthur, no matter what his grandmother feels.  
  
When John prepares for his first meeting with Mrs. Whitsett he dresses well, but not too formally, in a casual jacket, neat beige jumper and pressed slacks. John is mentally prepared to explain his work, living situation, Sherlock, cases, meeting Arthur, etc. Paperwork made it all look so hollow, when the reality was more vivid than any story could paint.  
  
Sherlock is out of the flat for the day and John smoothly makes a good first impression that does not involve the man bursting in, blood covered, with a harpoon, or anything remotely as interesting.  
  
Though he is excited and engages eagerly into the adoption process John is starting to feel like it is making 221b feel less and less like 221b..

* * *

 

  
“Would you like a cup of coffee, John?” Asks Molly as he and Sherlock stand in the lab.

In order to prove an alibi for a man presently imprisoned, Sherlock is trying to use a donated body to see if the same wound, inflicted after death, matches with the trauma seen of the imprisoned man's supposed victim then he could not have killed him. If the cause of death was not the injury, then his client was innocent.  
  
As John did not need to do much he simply stood by, watching Sherlock peer at the body and walk around the long cold steel table with a methodical stare. So he accepts Molly's offer and smiles.  
  
“I heard what you're going to do..” Molly says gently, smiling in a shy yet sweet way at him. She looks down at her own coffee, and the extra that she brought for Sherlock who is uninterested in consuming caffeine while on a case. “My aunt works as a volunteer for Family Futures.”

“What's that?” John asks.  
  
“An assembly group. It brings together teachers, parents, therapists and anyone else needed for traumatized children to do better in schools.” Molly smiles, looking sheepishly apologetic, “My aunt explains it better..”  
  
John nods politely and makes a mental note of it, taking a sip of the too milky coffee. Molly does not make it just how he likes, but John does not mind.  
  
A slight flush comes to Molly's face and she nearly stammers, “I just wanted to say I think it's great what you're doing. Good luck.” She leaves, feeling pleased though a touch awkward as the words did not come out as she had wanted.  
  
“She has a crush on you now.” Comments Sherlock dryly while leaning over the body, fingers on the corpse's shoulders.

* * *

 

John went to every class that was available – not taking any hours at the practice, and sometimes leaving in the midst of an investigation with Sherlock. There was time in between training classes, sometimes it seemed to stretch for ages, and he would meet with Mrs. Whitsett periodically to go over his progress, fill in new forms or packets, and endless questions. She begins to run checks – on John, around the flat regarding its safety, with John's references, and so forth.

The weeks roll by. In a way John cannot wait to finally get everything done and be cleared. He sees Arthur often, but visiting and living as one of your own is not the same thing. Yet the farther into the process he gets the more he realizes he still has a great deal to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I start thinking about the next chapter and I just giggle..


End file.
